Our dreams are vivid but they are short
Consisting of only the few brisk moments between
Our birth and our death:
The book ends time has provided for us
That encase the series of breaths and heartbeats
We refer to as "life".
Visions of bright futures dance before our minds eye
Because though we are born into a world of color
We only dream in black and white,
Always telling ourselves there's something better
Right around the corner.
Little do we know of the lie we've been told
For we chose to forget the way it weighed upon our hearts
That we could not in fact change the world.
We call ourselves warriors because we have survived thus far.
But we fight for nothing.
While the blood of our enemies still courses through their veins
The blood of our children is pour into our hands.
Look at what we've left for them!
We are not warriors but middlemen
For the slave traders that lied to us:
"Give us you're children and we'll give you the future!"
Now the future is bleak and our children are dying;
Becoming nothing but bodies that do others bidding.
Artists are no longer born on this earth,
We have taught them to be of one mind:
Always accepting, always believing,
Never thinking, never loving.
Someday the mind will rise against those
Who dare to explore the conscious state for themselves.
Then all will be lost,
And the warriors shall become unmarked graves.
For those who fight for nothing die for nothing,
And those who die for nothing cease to exist in the minds of mortals.

k.g.

Copyright 2015