Convict Chains

rich man and peasant understand
coins change hand,
despite the Magna Carta
we must all barter
to live --

only communists give
nothing
something
sometimes --
same crimes.

so, when reason rains,
i drag my convict chains
to the barrow bog
and cut peat
in feral fog
where motives meet.

six feet down,
sucked back five thousand years
the old town
settlement appears
in full formation
of chattel,
cattle
and battle
still at station
preserved
to serve.

around
the round
late night fires,
power plays and lust desires
hearth home homogenous
in Mars and Venus
making love in animal skins
wearing the same sins.

on the long walk home,
some alone
and those together,
believe never
can be changed
and are called strange.