Slavery In Our Time
Isn’t it sad that we can’t see what we might have
As we piss and moan out the loan we own of a lie of life built for a time
Of fancy grown by an existence built without resistance,
With ease, a life viewed with goggles of rose, that we don’t really own.
That’s repeatedly blown for clandestine powers and fiat flowers once we’re grown.
Lost to life, instilled with strife, energy wasted on deadened plight
Music and poetry are the last conscious gasp, a pineal treat that naught can beat,
Save birth and death. Learn we must, to value each breath
Don’t fight for a future or past misplaced, now is all there ever is.
All there is, everything!
Hitchhiker 