1984

I commit thought crime,

driving passion

from a syringe

into the crux

of what I am supposed to be--

fighting materialism

for our downfall,

purchasing time

with my pen,

absorbing the heat

of a city that never sleeps,

for it draws on drugs

for entertainment,

letting the human spirit

die in the gutter;

the persistence of memory

becomes just a painting

as we deny

the reality of our lives,

we have amputated our history,

maiming our fortune

as we slander old age;

our bodies become cancerous,

and then we tie a ribbon around our disease,

pumping dollars

into a corporate machine,

but holding them on our backs,

the value of protest

coming secondary

to the dollar;

we are not free

but ignorant of our chains.

Copyright (C) 2009 Sara LeMaster