Confused, lost, little sheeple we have become,
accepting our fate with never a question;
‘do not cause trouble, for you have plenty.’
I refuse to believe that our free will is some
something we sacrificed along the way.
Shall we pay whatever toll is charged?
Offer a libation to the God of Mars,
because that is what is expected?
Or do we beat on the door,
demand to be let in,
grasp the handle and force it open
when they refuse to answer?
We wander in the proverbial dark,
ignorant of answers beyond our grasp,
for we never demand the right to ask.
For The Sunday Whirl