There is little real fire

There is little real fire

In these terse words

Spat out in defiance

Of the shallow pool

From which they were drawn

There is no depth

To their antagonism

No marrow in the bones

Of the discussion

They provoke.

On reflection,

Has anything of value

Sprung from such

Barren soil

Tilled with soft hands

Uncalloused by the toil

Of forced labour

Unless we can

All be deemed as slaves

Unto the greater good

Perhaps the privilege

Of choice

The gift of status

As a measure

Of freedom

Can confer strength

On honest words

When their intent is rendered

In the blood

Of invisible scars

Patterned by the rake of life

Or is such a divergence

Nothing more than an exercise

In appeasement,

When my own voice

Is drowned

In a well of dark despond

Am I still as wealthy

As the next man?

When will the poverty

Of my expression

Be forgiven

When the truth is,

I cannot forgive myself