Someone’s been telling you stories, and they just ain’t true. They just ain’t true.~Dan Fogelberg
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.~Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
When the narrative shifted kafkaesque
and showing my face meant I was undressed
and herded sheep signaled social distress
behind masks unspeaking, I must confess
melancholy as the chasm revealed
those fearful in illogical minefields.
Sovereign, my freedom rippling, I’m a stone
in murky waters. I will not be owned.
The gallery of cosseted in deep
depending on a salary to keep
a lifestyle dissonant destroying souls
scurrying under leaky roofs. The holes
and gaps too numerous to count. When will
they cease their bailing, and discount the shill?
Wake up and seize their freedom? Bitter pill
ground underneath their heel? A simple thrill
creating a new story quite unique
raising this voice, recalling how to speak
and breathe, a lion rising from the sheep
proud and grounded, no longer fast asleep.
Featured images: This hawk came to visit and then allowed me to photograph her flying away.