Inside, my soul
knows and accepts the set
moulded by the masses
and the subtle forces
that manipulate them,
it’s only
that it refuses
to feel
bounded by it.
Fuck ‘em.
Fuck ‘em all.
To their manufactured hells
with all of it.
Soles grow out of, are guided
by the light of subliminal glow,
triad of eyes set on target,
potential roots
already squirming
in aching
hunger for new, firm
ground, play memorized,
the stage wound, bound deep
in mind,
and yet this ego trots
about, donning its persona
in a context
where it serves
as the walking dead
in the graveyard
of clinging, aversion-bound ghosts
where only children
should play, so as to acquaint
themselves with the fate in store
if they don’t explore
and pursue their natural passion,
fan and feed the flames,
make their place or mark on the world,
work for the greater good, using
all they are connected to,
so as to truly make this world
a home for all of us,
not just the powers that be:
a fuel
for true liberals
in light
of the Pareto Principle.
