As I come to a signpost
I'm met by an angel named Hope
whose holding a ball and a rope
asking to be helped with his load
without pausing or looking back
I carry his slack, moving fast
trying not to be sidetracked
by the treasures of man
they've been designated to entrap
the weak along the path
the obscenely fat who can't
control their snapped intestinal tract
or the defiantly unashamed
money slave who in the grave
begs for change but never changes
not being racist, anyone can taste it
I pass the hated and jaded
and the overzealous in cages
as I carry Hopes chains
as I lift his weights
I feel I'm gaining strength
I feel my scars fading away
approaching a new day
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