Saturday, May 2, 2015



We walk upon the roadways we’re told to walk upon,
And find ourselves in places we really shouldn't be.
But what should be or shouldn't, between the herders and
The herded ones of reason, are matters of dispute.

The corrupted hate resistance, the zealots even more.
Our fellows who’re compliant—they shun the ones who’re not.
And so we have progressions, from misery to worse.
And all I've left, of reason, I now express in verse.

For some of us resisted and walked our lonely paths.
But each of us was hounded, who didn't stop and turn.
The paths we trod are faded and soon they might be gone,
For those who're young or jaded will hardly seek them out.

We foundered in the ocean.  We saw the distant isles.
We swam towards those islands, but only for a while.
We were driven back by currents.  We either yielded or
We fought until exhausted—and one by one were drowned.


We're weighted down by morals, when these are valued less
Than what is deemed expedient.  Our caring gives us stress..
What matters is the package.  Who cares for small details?
What's slick and fast and trendy succeeds, where labor fails.
We each may have our ethics, be loath to let these go.
And yet, amidst the breakers, we either sink or float
By holding still to scruples or yielding to the flow.
The virtue, that’s resistance, has long been seen as vice.

For some are always eager.  They never see the harm—
And so despise the laggards, who ask the questions still.
We’re beaten down and broken, or bribed to walk those roads
To then become the captors, who bend the captives’ wills.

Our labor, it is precious; the time we have is short.
And yet that time’s expended, and labor’s turned to naught.
We see the great destruction; we see the precious die.
We’re not allowed to question.  These things, they just deny.
So why appeal to reason, to sight of mind and heart?
What use is it to argue with those who will not see?
We drape our tattered ethics around ourselves and say,
“Although you strip us naked, we still will not obey.”
We always have our choices—and even unto death
We either stifle conscience or listen to its voice.
But when we’re in the furnace, it hardly matters then.
Our souls have been forfeited.  Within the hell, we’ll burn.
What point in now regretting the roads we traveled on?
We knew that their direction would lead towards this day.
The flames around are roaring, the work we did is lost.
We strangely still are fighting, as ashes drift to dust.

2015 May 2nd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

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