by Anthony Salandy

Do not stand too close
To the edge of a possible tomorrow
For fickle fancies persist in the hearts-

Of all native men
That dot the green pastures
Of the dark blue marble on which we live

For they can covet
All manner and quantity of beings
For which they objectify-

And crave to control
In the worn hands of an oppression
So endearing that one might question-

Just why the predilections
Of a faulty masculinity
Continue to be satisfied,

But in an era of intellectual opulence
It is any guess why strange inclinations
Continue to penetrate and persist-

In a world of rising women.