We speak to the master
but our voice
is like coins down a wishing well
Wasted...
Our hands clasped up,
looking upwards to eyes
never staring
towards our failed gazes...
The shackles upon a minds
contemplation
wrenched from what is clearly
misinterpreted but still is clenched.
But there are a growing number
that see no master
and are slave to none...
The shackles of eyes open...
There is a master and a slave,
through mans voice the master
controls the herds..
but now the cane has snapped.
Now our own voices are heard,
not bowing to another's whim.
We are not slaves on bended knee...
hands clasped as if we are in the wrong..
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
We speak to the master
but our voice
is like coins down a wishing well
Wasted...
Our hands clasped up,
looking upwards to eyes
never staring
towards our failed gazes...
The shackles upon a minds
contemplation
wrenched from what is clearly
misinterpreted but still is clenched.
But there are a growing number
that see no master
and are slave to none...
The shackles of eyes open...
There is a master and a slave,
through mans voice the master
controls the herds..
but now the cane has snapped.
Now our own voices are heard,
not bowing to another's whim.
We are not slaves on bended knee...
hands clasped as if we are in the wrong..
