Strangled Roots

              In anxious anguish my eyes burn holes through the ceiling above my bed. The tunnel of my vision penetrates far beyond this cursed town in which I am hostage. From anything of remote resemblance to myself I run, but in folly I trip over my own roots. They rip through the damp stagnate earth, taking control of my momentary lapse. I smile in the glorious release of suffocation. I am dragged from the peak of my delusion, forced into compliance, stomped on by mankind, and laughed at by myself. Ha Ha. Wise-up they say, as I am drawn into their lair, the depths my hell. Another beating will be my last, but worse is to admit it. A three-way duel, in strict observance of genteel behavior. Me, myself, and I. These are the mistakes of the last generation, who repeat those before them. Repetition ends in insanity, and then we die, again. It happens all the time. Why should I believe in salvation? The slammer strikes again, and it never misses.  

              Thrown upon the foot of King Metropolis, and I pledge allegiance to the flag. Why not? I am handed a golden ticket. Who do you take me for, fucking Willy Wonka? As an industrialist and a slave owner, Willy Wonka has no God. The golden ticket expired long ago. These are the rules. What do you want me to do, bare knuckle brawl the central bank? I don’t hate myself that much. No longer able to run, my roots grip the soil beneath me, a mash of global compost. After letting society rot overseas, the nutrient rich soil is shipped to the land of the free. Better over there, then over here where all my shit is. Soil oh so sweet, a million diamonds sparkle through my veins, but I will die here if I don’t leave soon. But we must die somewhere, so why not here?