A Middle-Class Dream

We march without armor, in battles unseen, No guns, no bombs—just life’s daily routine. Critics surround, with words sharp and cold, Doubts they hurl, both bitter and bold. From dawn’s first light to weary dusk, We toil and we strive, in whom can we trust? Our dreams are heavy, our hearts won’t bend, Against a world that seeks our end. Yet hope is the flame we clutch so tight, A prayer in the dark for morning’s light. Someday we’ll rise, on wings we’ll soar, To a life worth fighting forevermore.