I wrote a poem...
Always walking. Always searching. All day. Relentless. The streets are emptier but the sidewalks busier. Shops boarded up. This is the environment of nothing.
An angry, demanding crowd at one corner relief agency, but they have nothing more to give. It has all been given, more has been given away than has ever existed.
You cannot give what you do not have, and you can no longer have what is no longer left to take.
A woman huddles on the curb and holds her child, probably dead, in desperate hope while plaintively watching those who pass by, her gaze is a beggar, no one looks at her. They have nothing, they have less than a corpse to thier names.
City Hall is all boarded up, but has become a shelter for the needy masses who will pick up and leave once the trash and stench of urine overwhelms them. There is a large crowd in the park next to the County Office, a loudspeaker has drawn them in. A lynching, or rather a semi-official hanging of an ex-businessman who has been declared guilty of the crime of going broke. The broke crowd screams hatred for blood.
He has become one of the needy masses, he was broken by the new confiscatory 90% tax rate. His greed merits death.
He is hung, the crowd disperses but their grim visages are not sated. The needy, demanding class has triumphed over the greed of those who once fed them.
I see my poetry has no impact at all.
I guess it will after I am dead.