Dying On Flat Ground

Dying On Flat Ground


Where do your expertise lie, futuristically modern American man?

You are neither a carpenter nor a free thinker

Or a Man for that matter

You are a parroting bird, eyes out of round from blue light

Brain confused and disarmed by incessant pleasure

Uninformed by 'information'

Dying on a hill that others have cultivated

And turned effeminate by your bread

That you believe you know anything for certain

Only proves that you certainly know nothing

High ground is unnecessary to observe the loss of life on the hills around me

I don't even need binoculars

Though I am no better, I prefer dying alone down here in the valley