I wrote this poem today after a "supervisor" reprimanded me for wearing the wrong type of shoes to a meeting because they didn't meet the social expectations of one old lady. The NT obsession with twisting and contorting to meet an ever growing list of social expectations is a prison to those who think for themselves. But the would-be jailkeepers don't realize that they too are already in a prison of shallow faddishness and societal demand.
the faces are a jail. cold iron jaws set rusting into bricks. dripping tears of derision rusting decaying putrescence. They themselves the strangers over whom they loom, ranks of shadows gray and dusty on the gray dusty floor. The prisoners below enchained by prisoners; soulless zombies mindless fools. The rules they've set, standards, modes, plumblines hanging quivering and dull on cords of iron, the wires creaking swaying downward yet choking their necks, the gates of lock and key, the sour walls, gray stench, bars rusting, the shadows, the riven moonlight on the floor.
05 Aug 2009, 10:57 am
