At times I feel meekly paralyzed
Covering my face at the shame of gruesome deeds
If one could perhaps rip the blindfold from their heart
Lay each story onto a scale and measure them
They’d be horrified at the punchlines we’ve been sold;
One man with limbs marred by pavements heat in the scorching summer
Somewhere near 96th Street
Onlookers watch gazes filled of disgust
And I, I disappear into the crowd
Stomach full of lead
Or perhaps the woman with two children
One upright, one decrepit
As she stumbles up and down flights with purse, babe and stroller in hand
Mere seconds from plunging to her demise
But her worry is with is the place she needs to go,
the mouths she need to feed,
the work she must return to
Never mind patrons passing idly along stairs until she trips on the first child,
Another rushing to grasp the falling carriage from her hands
As she tumbles down 8 flights, child firmly clasped to her chest
Woe to these current times—
Profit at the demise of our brothers
Without the means to purchase tombstones for graveyards
While others are sipping from gold plated cups
Until one sees the face of God within themselves
It is hard to see God in the needy man with burnt limbs;
The wailing child dangling from the mother’s arms;
The man on Wall Street stuffing his mouth with gold
I am horrifically guilty—
Wishing for the return of my innocence
Genuinely Jannah 