The Gentle Cry Of A Dying Art
Censor
Don’t try to take me down by my words; strangle the meaning away and choke me to no breath, because others agree with me. It is not my doing that you have squeezed every inch of decency out of the human will with your prospects of legalised crime that has us all like victimised martyrs. It is not that those who oppose you are trying to start a revolution or an insurrection that will revive the Che Guevara or Pancho Villa or Mother Theresa.
It is your own doing.
The Skyline draped in wars of disobedience awaiting the prophecies to hail an end, not yours but ours. Death dispersed on some dystopian streets; the self relinquished one autonomy at the time, sacrificed for the sake of tyranny becoming divine? Censor without intruding the pursuit of happiness. Censor without the audacity to intrude speech’s freedom, but imprison our existence. Censor our thoughts, our will to touch and behold wisdom with your dance while we are made to enjoy the party?
It is your own doing.
