We are millionaires whose bank accounts
have been done in by our own inflation,
out on the street, our life confiscated
by the imperial status quo.
We learned early that rocks were inert
and no harm done in kicking them around.
We sat in obedient rows.
Graduated proficient in math but not in wisdom.
No one told us the universe was made for joy
We never just shoved the desks aside and danced
That would have been too much, the wall flowers
already relegated to remaining alone.
There are those who like things this way,
who benefit from our monotony
They are crocodiles who consume the human
Bring us down to crawling on our bellies
They fear the artists among us
those who see qualities and connection,
who sense that atoms are in relationship
from one end of space to the other.