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..