The Inhabitants


Tears dripped down his face­—the realization,

Life is not what it seems, nor its inhabitants,

They merely exist in reality born and obscured of pacification,

The suppression of difference, the oppression of independence,

The forgotten art that heals in self-exploration,

All that remains are puppets for beings who follow the cadence.

It seems the rest of the way I am alone,

I reached a destination in which time is of the essence,

The disheartening truth that life is much shorter than we have known,

Then again no one gave the flowing constant imperative emphasis,

Forget everything you have learned and engraved in stone,

Or regret will be your purgatory, your consequence.

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