Sawdust covered souls languish beneath the heat

Forcing them on their knees 

Sticky substance coats their hands 

Remnants of molten popsicles 

Children devour 

In Central Park 

Where the same children lavish 

In a delirium of ecstasy 

Never to be experienced 

By the breadline soldiers 

Is this what is left of the American Dream? Stripped of serendipity 

Their hands and legs 

Tied and bound 

Left struggling 

For that last glimmer of hope 

That their sons and daughters— 

Will soar 

Only for them to drown 

While watching other sons and daughters

Although birthed from the same fruit—

Triumph