Upside down, inside out,
we build coffins from trees like these,
men who lobotomize
ourselves with lust for power
sometimes with the
willing help of women,
who we have not yet
despoiled
and so remain innocent,
naive, low-hanging
fruit easily shaken loose,
their grip on their own lives lost,
while we come to hate women like this one,
who refuses to come down
or admit her view of our world as skewed,
determined to cling
to those branches
she hopes she can climb her way to fame,
she defying us and
our vision of the universe,
already wounded,
already having her faith in fairness shaken
as such an early age,
perhaps wiser for having gone through it,
learned from it, grow
with it,
and so she can have her own life
without nailing herself up in a coffin.
No comments:
Post a Comment