What has made me a rat
and what has made you a rat,
slaves to winding Blue Chip halls?
Dragging numbers and figures by chain set to ankle,
seeing a cocoon of bureaucracy as the means to come out something better
Since when has life become a game
made up of the status quo and
made us it's unwilling subscribers?
And if you think you're not, that means only it's dress is much more alluring
did we become the contents of Skinner's Box?
At what point does a tiger
jump through the hoop and come out a cat wearing stripes?
Is it before or after the tamer does the same?
When will we realize we are not made of glass
and eggshells are not made of steel?
I came home one day
and the driveway spoke to me.
Pulling me aside, out of the
calculated, necessary steps from
my car to the door,
and vice versa.
It told me of the snow,
and how it blanketed everything.
That trees and the branches were fine,
but the ground begged to be tucked in,
by the aimless wander of boots.
It pointed out the falling snowflakes.
And how each one had something different to say
as it carved its path downwards.
Illuminated by the Sun.
I heard of the Sun too.
How it not only made the flakes alive,
but everything. And everything is washed in it's light.
Like the patch of ground,
untouched by snow because of because of my car.
Or my home,
sighing with content, basking in the glow.
It let me know how sad it's been,
how sad everything here has been,
because of how little I've been listening.
I'm an echo of misguided direction.
An arrow stuck to an elephant
whose only desire is to rip his shirt off,
and shout like an eagle.
Stomping the ground to make his presence known,
beating with fists clenched, his legs and chest
to know of his own presence.
Gritting his teeth and erupting,
punch through the sky with un-synthesized experience and emotion.
My brain knows more than I knew
so I'll feel the texture of my steps,
straighten my shoulders, chin up
and let the ground wince for once
I tread consciously.
I tread consciously and my path will scream it for me.
The weathered callous carries experience,
eyes sunk into the head trying to keep all they have seen.
The ears wither. The mouth blooms
an aperture to the cerebral treasure.
Time speeds on and the body responds
two steps now take the place of one;
this is not the body shutting down,
but the soul enjoying its time left here.
— The End —