Stream of Ruthlessness

The bleached out 'naughty' bits,

the pretense of vanilla,

the obligation to the sensible and esteemed,

converging in a saccharine

whitewash of a pure and true soul.

Deluged by influence of Others--

those damnedable controllers of puppet strings--

we sway and motion habitually through

ironically self-defeating patterns;

domestication complete, we satisfactorily

lifeless and subdued minions fully snared.

Seductive smiles and intentions most grand

matter not a natter's tit

when soul devastation is at hand;

pleasing others to a fault,

likewise resentful of the tacit demand

driving these befuddling endeavors.

The greatest feat of all?
Convincing targets that assault is medicine,

that grievance is duty, that suppression is divine.

Take the child and call the parent barren.

This world of duplicity and schisms

has no sentiment for a feeling soul.

We dance around the preposterous shore

of this dwindling River of Life,

seeking to be quenched, sated, cooled.

Instead, it's a Stream of Ruthlessness,

drowning, gagging, washing clean

the evidence of Real, the essence of True.

We can't even shed a tear;

enmeshed to the fictions, we

are bone dry in the midst of our watery prison.

But others will call us 'free.'

Which version will preside?

Was it worth the price to see the ocean?

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