The poor's poor voices

Decided to pick up my rusty pen of poetry today: pardon me if my ink appears in grimy scribblings.

The poor's poor voices

I was to scour the world,
A sojourn for a purpose of one,
I was to change the world,
With the capture of that one voice.

Our generation has been robed.
A larceny beyond comprehension,
The wicked giggle at the tension,
Mediated by our various losses.

So how shall they merry at the sight?
Of men in disarray in tearful plights.
How shall they survive?
If the wicked yet milk them dry.

Justice had be dashed a titan blow,
It's eyes oozes smelly fluid of sorrow.
Only the tatty ones in rags seeks justice.
Array they stayed in line as the wicked serve them injustice.

A mirror of demeanor separate the  rich from the poor.
A tale of dishonor, upon the lips of the poor it sprung.
They wish an end to the rich's spree of terror,
Their heart they wish would earn succulent core.

Nothing changes yet, businesses maintained status quo,
Heroes that should have helped have all sunk to rust.
If only their is a fate that honours the poor.
Upon destiny's ride it shall lead them to freedom.

Upon all the inequalities,
Upon all the sufferings,
A say would have been enough,
A plead would have been fair,
But who would have listened?
Of what worth are voices,
If they cannot tingle ears of worth?