The composed idea of fine culture
is a choir of dogma
in which war is consistent with peace.
A heavy capitulation,
succumbing to modern desire.
Fragant luxuries that enlock the masses,
Where they lay weak in dirty houses beneath the hillside
Where clean houses host finery of classes.
A boy finds himself chasing money.
A boy finds himself chasing youth.
He tries to tie his fingers together
for the group,
but the men and women upset him
with their obtuse complacency and common tongue.
He spits when he talks
His mouth tastes like metal from the silver spoons he's been fed.
His walk is harnessed
with prescribed symbolism,
Arrangements of misleading images
masquerading as the end game.
He finds himself chasing youth
He longs to be like the children,
The children,
The innocent,
Their behaviour so ignorant.
He finds his hands SHAKING.
It can't be healthy for man to tie himself up with strings.
Please tell me what you believe.
