These mortal shackles keep us bound, and firmly in one place,
hope is fleeting, slipping aquiline through open fingers.
I dreamt that freedom called upon my door and kissed my face,
happiness surpassed the guilt that often stays and lingers.
The victors in their suits of blue and papers marked in red,
served their dutiful dismissive justice on my conscience,
the streets, which welcomed me with open arms returned, no bed
cold and hard the ground, a stand to test my weak resilience
no comprehension how this came to be, what could be said?
Words fell mute on deafened ears, appeals ripped at my constance
The winds that winter whipped my furrowed brow with discontent
frigid stagnancy I loathed to breathe a minute longer.
My only crime was being far too poor to pay the rent
Systems fail the weak who only dream of getting stronger.
Submitted into One Shot Wednesday at One stop poetry