I. My dreams go beyond
That of the dying
Generation: Being dumb
And being beautiful. I bid breath
From her wilting lips so I
Can breathe, but I’m drunk on
Freedom"
Yet, prison chains bleed from
In between my hips, and from
Her lips bleeds the breath I burn.
II. It’s my turn
Now, as a member of
The newer generations to
Bear the burden of those human fetters
That wrap around my legs. A frost of
Rust weeps from these ancient chains,
A bloody dust from which my
Ancient guilt was born,
III. And I am torn between
Being sick and being strong,
Doing right or being
Wrong for
Reputation’s sake.
IV. They urge me to be fake
And condition me to cry when
I look at my reflection.
V. And I let them do this.
This.
And my self-abusive echo
Fails to fill the chasms
In my lungs. She,
A dying generation,
Wasted all her breath
For faith in me.
Because, as long as I replace her
Dreams with standards,
Those chains are suffocating me.