I was a one-eyed child who stood in wonder of the world

I heard a whisper say: “There’s a future to chase”

The eagle of experience, the hawk of genes, then swirled

And firmly locked their claws in my innocent gaze

Now, broken down, I’ve watched what I should not have seen

It merely taught me what decomposition means

The prize for weary years after trudging up the hill

Is falling off the cliff, while chewing sugar-coated pills

Forced to stare life in the whites

Evoking images of pagan rites



I was a carbon copy who was feeling ill at ease

I had to wear the zeal of the mob on my sleeve

I signed an application for my personal release

The mob refused exemption for what I believed

I felt frustration, which kept pounding on my chest

Deceived I knew my heart was swindled of its zest

Opinions must agree with whatever is allowed

You can’t be different, no, you can only join the crowd

Head kept low and fists clenched tight

Evoking images of pagan rites



Across the desert to the bosom of the mountains

That’s where our tribe sought shelter to isolate its soul

Our people dug a cave from which there flowed a fountain

The source of life and death for those who were in control

There were fires.

       There was dancing.

              There was drumming.

There were shouts made by the shaman: “Evil’s coming”

And from these hills, the flickering of faint and distant lights

Ever since are signaling

         the images of pagan rites


(… continued …)