Death at Conception

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Chained to the fence poor mutt

Your life’s trail a patterned well-worn rut

This morning’s sweet breeze beckon you cannot feel

Encircled as you are by his cold collar of steel.

 

Our strangled thoughts choke our mind

Our ideas die before we can find

Creativity paces hostage to fear and scorn

Dreams of future lay cold stillborn.

 

Wild untamed free imagination scares our civility

The mob defends against with jackets strait and alchemy

This death began in the instant of our conception

Black sackcloth was set aside the day of our invention.

 

We accept our reward for conforming compromise

Cheerfully gnaw their biscuits, hiding tears and muffled cries

Finally we shake the chains that choke our throat,

Celebrating with a final lap of our patterned well-worn rut.

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