Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt
Humanity's paradox; from the top down there's dominance.
Prepared or not, we're taught how by Congresses
to believe in the truth -- damaged or shot down by terror plots.
True vanity cares for squat...
They fought for this? Those rebel fighters that lost their limbs,
only to free us for Jesus and expose us to careful shocks.
Systems overloaded by chromosomal affliction;
genetically broken and missing wholesome growth and subsistence.
(Food and Drug: poison; ointments of pain,
media propaganda that spoils the brain).
To choose enough choices! How incredibly hopeless;
to be a species only known for its limits.
But choices remain to be discovered.
With passive voices constrained our cries are vicious.
Just loud enough to occupy a couple city blocks of business.
Regardless though... on the other-side exists live volition.
Any time a thinker is poised to explain
you've got the freedom to decide to listen;
to acknowledge frozen traditions
and move on to reorient this process shown to our children.
O, but to exercise your restraint in the face of open resilience!
From I to Mind: the struggle is an existential one.
But at the same time we hustle for a presidential sum.
Bound by the same system that allows for free decisions,
purchased on the backs of the proud -- deplete of wisdom.
Emissions abound, complete restriction expounded,
with synthetic rhetoric, reason dismissed and replaced by
disbelief in the sciences, not the mystical faiths... Lies
or at least compliant deceit -- in defiance of peace.
Rhyme is release from the bindings of ruin.
Fate is just that inexplicable alliance of music
and language. Utopia exists when truth isn't dangerous.
A union of strangeness, a philosopher's Dream!
Total peace of Mind: a prophet's reprieve!
No confusion to sway myth, where the opulent breathes
the same oxygen as the top of the heap!
I read a story once, it spoke of a gruesome death.
A strangled child had a mind where the truth was kept;
a heart where the triumphs of Our music slept;
a pair of open eyes where the only signs of Our beauty wept.
He didn't succumb to fate, just the Laughing Luck of Hate,
bounding through amongst the Pain, it used his Flesh,
disguised the trust he gave to his guests
who camouflaged this disgust with Grace.
Such is the dichotomy: the reason freedom is contested.
Some call it Sin, others say it's just the menial connection
between us all. All within. None without.
That -- he told his son when he couldn't sleep -- is what love's about.