Senses of the people
The flaming smoke of a dying dream surrounds the multitudes.
A green putrid essence of a shattered existence clings to most.
A dreary, numbing hum emanates from every object and corner of every city, village and farm.
The bitterness of aching, controlled, enclosed minds litter the tongues of young and old.
A greasy film of greed encloses upon banker, farmer, student, and worker alike.
No one is here, who has not lived with, who has been without these feelings.
They hang upon us, as our clothes drape upon our missive shells.
All have suffered loss and pain. No other species suffers better or more willingly.
You can be different.
You can be free of the oppression that they, and we, bring down upon us.
Our time here is too limited to be subservient to any master other than our own conscience.
You must only do the things, the jobs, the activities, and the labor that you see as right for you alone.
Disregard the masses, disregard the government, disregard anyone who attempts to tell you what can and cannot be done.
What should and should not be done.
What is right and what is wrong.
History teaches us that such societies crumbled under their standardized thinking.
Be different.
Be free.
Tags: Poem
