Preservation

My soul is a heretic
Who goes by limitless names
Preaching to the villages of my body
To move against routine, curricula, and norm
To cry at night of lost space-time

My head is a garden
Hair growing wild with dandelions and foxtails
Thoughts like fertilizer to nourish the Eden
Wisps of pensiveness pollinating,
Wandering out my ears and through the locks of flora surrounding

My heart is a prison gate
She does me in every time
Keeping inmates close together
So close that only a few escape
Increasing loads in cell blocks don't phase her
She is the powerful warden with the key thrown down a well of my own making

Yet no riots are planned
No gardeners hired
No executions in the making
I am the way I am because I choose to be.
I think, I feel, I know, therefore I become all that I will be.