Poetry Is My Protest: Poem 20

Voices turn like a potter's wheel,
Like vinyl,
Like assembly lines in unpaid hands.
Like vertigo
Turning, 
Churning out manufactured versions, impersonations of ourselves.

We come of age needled together by opinions and lies, stapled like barcodes onto our newspaper skin.
The Ventriloquist throws his voice.

The tyrant fears the child who topples kingdoms with her laughter
And stands upon mountains she moved with her finger
And so the worlds of men and the seductions of power
Will one day be dug from the landslide
And our grand children's children
Will look at these broken artifacts,
And dust them off with tilted heads and raised brow and wonder at the meanings of our masquerade.