Amidst

The seats in the middle are preferred least
Devoid of the buzz around or the views outside.
Living in this perpetual state of monotony was not a choice;
To leave, I’m hesitant, I steer away from confrontation.
There are some who do not bat an eye,
But my eyes blink in indecision.
I schedule these mutable events of chaos
But I am stuck in a perennial pursuit of peaceful waters.
My survival is key.

Protest is a right
Yet to protest is a privilege
When you toil for the ones who cannot,
And the ones who cannot, can only fight for their own.
Three rivers lead up to the source,
One with the motorboats with gilded names,
One where millions paddle in unison,
A few of us, however, row through a calm endless creek.
My survival is guaranteed.

I believe I’m close to the zenith
But I can’t help but look back;
To forget the ones I’ve left behind,
My arms move the oars unconsciously.
I realize now there were never three rivers;
I’m only crossing a stream leading to the privileged waters,
Augmenting the efforts of my ancestors
To taste the faux ambrosia and nectar on the greener side.
My survival has become obsolete.

These thoughts fog my decisions,
Muscle memory, my white cane;
I know I may seem ignorant,
I ignore the ones calling me the same.
Death on this stream is inevitable,
We intend to go up, our boats drift aside;
The ones behind me pick my carcass apart,
My remains are reduced to a resource in deathly quiet waters.
I’m remembered no longer. I survive no more.