Yes, the tower

c
r
u
s
h
i
n
g

even as it uplifts;
a prison of Miss-

"You can't do that!"

-takes absent bliss.

That I am this 'thing' of wrought soul, ferrous whole,
rendered thus by others?

It burns my blood,
that sinful dove
all dressed up in proverbs.

I want freedom's kiss,
and Mankind's bliss,
and love rendered language.

More than modes of oppression loathed,
I am human:
rancid.