I don’t have friends in high places.
Instead of coffers, I have piles of sheets
detailing the things I owe.
Where doors open up for the powerful,
they remain shut for me
and for the millions
whose helplessness becomes capital
for the powerful’s gains.
And though we stand and walk
on the same ground,
somehow we stoop at their boots
as though their feet float
above us.
How long do we keep our voices soft
for fear of it being taken away
completely?
We say yes to the everyday demands
of our well-being
to keep our shelter and ensure we eat.
They distract us with bills and rent
and the illusion of weekends;
the illusion of rest.
There is no such thing as rest
when even in your sleep
you’re thinking about how to survive
tomorrow.
And they own tomorrow,
our tomorrows,
as long as the world keeps spinning
the way it does today.
But they have friends in high places.
We have orders to follow.
The only thing left
is our anger.
It may not be much in their eyes,
but as long as it burns in ours,
it may yet eat away
at their gates,
the edifices that keep them safe.
As long
as we don’t look away.
4 March 2026
Natalia Go
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