Walk of Shame

Boulders of blunders amassed in a grey, blue, green, drippy, messy field...
Compacted reminders of betrayals, egos, foolishness and poor choices or just plain bad luck,
Remnants of will and magic oozing from them,
As they are contracted further,
Strategically placed in the path to the mill,
To remind the walkers,
To keep free men from revolting,
Such a grand scheme!
No chains to drive'em on,
People driven by guilt, do not need chains...

One or two that break away from the zombie queue,
Are broken, by the remnants of their own magic,
A man's own tools turned against him,
In such a setting no force is required,
That's the way of the soul feeders...
Still there are guards hiding behind walls of regulations and mirrors,
After all, a little insurance never hurts...

Mass Production

Plundering of nascent thoughts,

An illicit elucidation by naïve worshipers,

Shackles, chains and captivity,

A known ignorance of the grand brevity,

Goals, success and all material manifestations of emotions,

Misinterpreted, misunderstood, modified,

Emotions innate by nature,

Morphed into instruments of rule,

Blind people queued up behind blind people,

At the door of the civilisation made mill,

To be fit into casts, packaged, labelled, stamped and shipped,

Not necessarily in that order,

Heart-wrenching, suffocating, pitiful, abysmal,

Looking for space,

Unwittingly bending to the will of the cloaked liberator,

Once, twice, over and over again,

Tattered, gasping, torn into pieces and being put back together,

Each time a little less,

Melted, Poured, Packaged, Labelled, Stamped and to be Shipped…