The Promised Land

Working for an end,

where the goal is always hidden

behind the next mountain.

Am I Moses?


I rally and cry,

like a thousand flamingos.


Even among other birds

the flamingos stand out,

despite being one of the few zoo animals

to sit among a plethora

of other types of avian friends.


Moses worked,

he hollered,

he stirred emotion,

he probably cried,

and he didn’t pass

the threshold to his goal.


I kick

the hypocritical threshold

with the anger

of a thousand bending knees

standing above tepid water.


He hit the rock,

trying to get water.

Apparently anger

isn’t the best method

to convince others

to cough up their belongings to you.


I apologize,

as I at the same time curse,

at the threshold which

in name disappeared,

but is still squatting in my way.


The knee unbends

at the flimsy flamingo

kicks my pride in the teeth,

as my feet scream like a cartoon character,

trying to stop the break-neck-run


as I now must wait.


He asks for the water,


gets it,

is punished.


Will all my work,

be for naught?

All that pulling,



and threatening?


Will I ever get to see

the promised land?

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