Are they as stones?
Are they the holy statues of gold?
Are they not those stories we read over?
And over till we become them. Imitating-
who they were, becomin’ the dead once again.
Here, you see a zombie- the walkin’ dead.
You a bunch of them, bundled in offices.
In a taunt of becomin’ the future.
Yet, bathing in the past. Maskin’ freedom.
With the voice of a boss, ‘n chains of his dreams.
Dragged into homes, arguments made before-
the full moon, frowns kept till dawn. Silence beckons.
Or the azygous beings who remain-
nocturnal wonderin’ where they belong.
Workin’ endlessly for a reckless soul-
claiming the dream of unity, in his honor.
Blessing their hard work, often with a raise.
For the dream of one, many shall suffer.
-by Meth Minerva