ꕥꕥꕥ DROSS ꕥꕥꕥ
Stones and glass pierce my naked feet. Poverty is the closest I can come to a natural state. Luxuries, are made by machines, rubber tires rolling down the street which burns my unshod bruised and broken soles.
Beaten, starved, unsheltered, refused and rejected roughly by every gaze despite our human privilege.
Yet to the force bred infants, born so poor they're dragged off to death, their mothers not entitled to own their milk which flows like tears from their tortured teats, all are wealthy and those who drink, wicked.