the subjugated struggle.

We'd once burnt our butts,

in a quest to relieve a life sanctified

but on blisters we sat uncomfortably long,

nursing injuries of a turn so wrong-

those were wages of dignity deferred,

torn and drizzling in inconsistent spurts.

And we thought we had nothing to fear,

our hearts and mind were numb from the pain,

but we're now afraid of the fear that shreds us to pieces:

this fear that never ceases,

we're afraid our efforts might never gain,

life's golden prize that we held dear.

We've been dragged in anguish with no place to hide,

like an ambushed and homeless mice;

we know the futility resident in our running-

for with renewed vigour we ended up crying,

beckoning tears that fall behind the bravery of our eyes,

reminiscent of the struggle that is oft° subjugated.

©Bunguswa.