Guilty

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I hereby pronounce myself guilty.
My hands, daily, partake in conveying
the fruits of their destitute and unending
sweaty toil. Squalid, subhuman even.
The master enslaves his subjects,
while he luxuriates in lavish dishes and silk sheets.
His roof protects him from exterior storms,
while his physical interior rots whole.
My hands play an unwilling role, dancing in step
to the devil's fiery tune.
Avarice swells the corrupt heart of the oppressor.
My hands, complicit only by pecuniary necessity, 
hear the anguish of the serfs who once extolled 
much pride from this toil.
Thy 10 fingers are but pieces of the whole that allow
the master to remain swaddled in riches.
It pains thy soul to partake in such malodorous escapades.
I protest vehemently, internally. Alas, to no avail, I return
daily and commit the guilty sin once again.

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