Tomorrow We Dance To Freedom

Production Camps Built Upon Tumor of Greed

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White light cut across the bleak black night bending an arc of painful remembrance on everything it touched. We were crowded around a fire started from scrapes dug and scavenged from a ground long stomped upon. The blocks of pavement pointing at angles towards a hopeless heaven were scattered around weeds that had grown through the remnants of civilization.

There was nothing civilized of what remained only the heartless bleak souls of those who used the word civil to describe their reign of power corrupted by hate. They were the grandchildren of those who had covertly taken control of lives that had once belonged to something grander than their sheer self-interests. The passing light once again moved across the littered landscape searing across a scene to horrible to comprehend - each pass revealed a glittering barbed wire barrier reflecting from here to there where transient lives died slowly.

Those inside worked for masters that corrupted the conception of humanity, ripping it with animal desires, cravings, and cruelty. A cruelty that knew no bounds practiced daily by these 'free market' priests bent upon shoving a product through production regardless of cost in lives, limbs, and human spirit - nothing mattered but what they could glean in money like dew licked up with drooling mouths ready to lash out with snapping jaws at anything.

When one of the cheap foreigners that they brought in was completely used up, the gate opened and his soiled disheveled body few through the dirty air gliding across razor posts until its thump was heard in the outside ditch. No longer of use to the masters his decaying body was added to an accumulation of human refuse that sent up a putrid odor attracting vultures from the surrounding area to feed. The vultures seemed to be of kindred heart to the masters because some had been captured, becoming pets that the masters carried in large cages on their journeys across the camp.

In the early days the masters would over stock their human warehouses filling them to the brim with foreign wretches who were unfortunate to be regarded as the ultimate cheap labor slave. Equalizing their labor pools in accordance with the proverb of 'globalization' the cheap labor slave would either be consumed in his low cost country or torn from family to work towards a certain death within the labor camps in a former developed country. The masters could always be heard faithfully chanting at noon - "better to have more than necessary in order to use without care". An exercise of control over each animal resource made for a docile compliant labor slave - they were far from home and family completely dependent upon their masters. All the masters required was a place to deposit their receptacle - their church (camp) of evil that oozed production at the cost of immeasurable human pain. Nothing mattered because theirs was an existence encapsulated in a hole that swallowed them in an excretion of greed - it had made them into deviants living on a gamblers addiction.

Raiders were now moving in a pounding surge beyond the hill to the north - a fight between rival camps could be discerned in the cries of those falling victim to the newly installed razor posts that were erupting from the ground. Like medieval castles, battles would occur regularly in order to take what could no longer be sold. No one remained who could buy - we who were not working had long ago been starved of income. Those working were fed and clothed but nothing more. Before disposal the clothing was shorn from the bodies of those who'd been consumed - all that the masters understood was to work them till they died - the day when they'd been completely transformed into skeletons with joints bloated into malformed knots. A replacement was always to be had from the human warehouse - a stinking rusting hollow shell at the back of the camp shrouded in screams and clawing sounds from those who realized their fate. Their own kind would drag them from the building pulling them through the sharp rusty steel door tearing skin and leaving blotches of blood attached to rotting meat.

Time to cover ourselves with the tarp; a cloud of poison emissions is drifting below the full moon - soon to be upon us. We must breathe slowly under our tarp when it passes. Such is the world we're left. The entire planet is the exclusive dumping ground of the corporate masters. Water flows with an eerie glow in streams lined with garbage purged from the camps. We drink with trepidation, realizing each drop pushes us closer to a contorted painful death. It was a death that had been coming earlier and earlier - we no longer survived past twenty-five.

The masters continued to practice their economic religion against the relief of a blighted scared planet. No longer human beings, we've become animals awaiting extinction around a shrinking pool of tepid water. We no longer bother to tell the tale of our once beautiful past before the tumor of greed spread like wildfire.