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Posts Tagged ‘cage’

Freedom is an open door to a cage.

Yet another cage must be opened

like animals, we are hesitant to move.

For the years we lived in it, self-made.

A niche. A home. A nest. A dungeon.

The city streets became a zoo

and life has turned us into one.

We migrate and roam like animals do.

Constantly in fear that patterns change.

Season after season. Year after year.

Territories we keep from somebody’s

breaching our personal space.

We accept no disturbance to our boundaries.

Yet we think we are free? Alone.

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It get tangled in a way that it tightens

around my feet. The threads gripping

possessively over the need to cover

the parts that are constantly moving.

You say, I’d better be protected at all times.

And yes, I had been so, for years

and I can’t bear the thought that I would

in my deathbed  never wandered away afoot.

 

Today, it get tangled even more.

How I might need somebody’s hand

to untangle the orderly mess I am in.

How I might desperately need

to run away from the familiar things

 

I need to loosen up. Shaking off

from the strappy refuge I am

wearing each day- such monotony

that cloaks in itself comfort

which in fact doubles as a cage.

Freeing the feet that needs the feel

of earth, at last.

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These wasteful hours

in the museum hall

exhibiting the exploits,

critics alike

are flocking over,

in desperate attempt

unlocking

digesting

the meaning of a mystery

to which is none.

Blabber-mouthing platitudes

and bloated praises.

The body of work.

 

You will see how

this culture of patronage

drains the penniless,

being subjects

fallen prey-

caged

framed

to a prisoned canvas

of posing nude.

 

In a night enveloped

by a faked light.

Revealing,

showing

some fleshly delight

while acting out

a cheap scene ripped 

from the page

of a slut magazine.

 

An art nouveau.

A magnum opus

on which they praise

the painter,

and not the one

whose eyes

are staring back

from the canvas

like a muted witness-

mocking,

despising

the cultured whims

of the bourgeoisie.

 

They call it art.

And you shudder

at a thought, when

you know it is

a meaningless,

empty accolade.

Worth a few

hundred bucks

reclining,

staring

blankly to a space-

being still

and have nothing

to hide.

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The words infiltrate a mind’s sovereign

colonizing a niche of space within

Rock-hewn among these parched walls,

petrifying civilization, quelling revolution.

 

The maze of letters clustered like jungle

to simmering cauldron of thoughts.

The texts became glowing embers

of world wars waged in the past.

 

When sentences begins imaginary-

little flames gather into firestorm.

Of bourgeoisie killing ideology-

etching history in its annals of freedom.

 

Crusade to equality  is an open door.

A people force through closed windows.

Clenched fist of a Che Guevarra,

struggle between power and martyrdom.

 

The conqueror’s territory eventually falls,

while peasants set loose from their cages.

Voicing sentiments, marching on parliament-

unafraid of gunfire and waterbombs.

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