On the verge

your insipid inequities infect the very air
they linger on our souls as manure does our boots
you quarrel and you gripe, moan and groan
nothing more tiresome than your attempts at niceties

hear the wind in your hair as you leave us in peace
notice the hordes that do not pursue
grapple with the self that you wantonly thrust upon others
but know that we do not weep for your choices

you still refuse to hear our voices