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The Weight of Wrong

Updated on June 17, 2013
Pressure (unfinished) from stabley Source: flickr.com
Pressure (unfinished) from stabley Source: flickr.com
Oppression from Neil.sadler Source: flickr.com
Oppression from Neil.sadler Source: flickr.com
Butterflies for Freedom from Gale Franey Source: flickr.com
Butterflies for Freedom from Gale Franey Source: flickr.com

The Weight of Wrong

By Tony DeLorger © 2011


Porous my skin,

to the lies of illicit minds,

open to the swell of voices,

the incessant mutterings

of righteous fools.

Their monotonic tones like a drone of turning wheels,

grinding truth into the dust of betrayal,

and disintegrating reality,

haunt my subconscious.

I can only hold steady and bear their bleating,

try not to invest in their trickery,

their polished and lustrous justifications,

and forked paths.

I bend under the weight of their propositions,

their ways to play the game,

the eternal construct of corruption,

and the self-professed alignment of self.

How I struggle with conformity,

buying into the lie of structure

and the reward of compliance,

within the iniquitous dreams of power.

I am but flesh, open and vulnerable,

but I refuse to close, and in doing so suffer

the pain of detachment,

and the guilt of society’s periphery.

I carry the weight of my ancestors,

the blood and pain of their struggle,

and in a time of plenty,

I remain fettered to the will of few.

The only true freedom is within,

yet expression is another matter,

the washing of minds complete,

convinced from the memory of always.


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