Beneath The Feet

Beneath the feet are people
who had everything
ripped from them like flesh from bone,
torn from the soft, pink satin
of comfortable suburbia.

Beneath the feet that walk in pairs
are feet that wander and wait
to be found.
immersed in a subterranean world
where silence gathers like gnats,
swarming in the shadows of glowing dusk,
scorching the skin with itching epitaphs and red souvenirs.

Away from chintz and warm fires,
a world of coffee and laughter,
are those who listen to the echoes
and draw sketches from the reflections.

Hazy sunrises mean only dawn,
a beacon of trivial insignificance
in an infinitesimal world,
and speak nothing of unity
or a hand to hold.

Hiding involuntarily in shadows,
invisible to the world
are people looking upwards
from beneath the feet of us all.


      Vikki Littlemore

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