the world is the slavedriver he is filled with rage,
the world has slaves that to his bidding for a wage,
the poet the muse must hide from his gaze,
and the artist, she scratches the bars of her cage.
we make the molds, so why do we not fit?
we set the bar yet we cannot reach it.
we have control but we have not the will,
to break free from chains of man made steel.
as years go by the common soul will conform,
it would rather be a number or a uniform,
it needs its numbered papers in this world to keep up,
it needs its numbered papers no account has enough,
tis easier to allow than to resist the the wicked way,
the world will own you from cradle to the grave.
|
|
| Views: 54
Email This to a Friend 
