untrammelled fingertips
scratching
for crumbs of dignity
frenetically lurching for a morsel,
searching across a society
that’s failed
no fraction of compassion
to justify a place
for humanity
no sliver of transient sanity
to quell the delusions
of misplaced hope
clawing hands cannot wring,
and digging fingers
bear the filth of truth
praying hands sit idle,
and so they open
the workshop’s gate
not a whit of will to stay the frenzy
of maniacal mentation
and demented laments
only the frantic pursuit for a reason to live,
a cypher to crack with broken nails,
read in flowing red
art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński
