Human Pound

Existence was a problem

In the under-stair cupboard

Of post-modern serfdom.

The light was rarely shown,

We scuttled around behind

Doors and were blown

About by the winds of change.

Something seemed greater

Than the door we ranged

Behind, but never in front.

It seemed a constant battle to

Conform, a crime to confront.

The light trickled through,

A liquid reminiscent of

Our despondent slough

By contrast.  It seemed

So pure and free, and

Yet we deemed

It far beyond the realm

Of serfs, and so kept away

From the elm-

Wood door, not daring

To step beyond our domain,

Not much caring

Whether there was a

World beyond to explore.

We sought to do away

With silly notions

Of freedom and equality,

Drinking the potions

The world forced us

To drink, potions which

Were excellent (Minus

Perhaps their mind-dulling

Concoction which

Constricted our mulling

Minds one step at a time).

Soon we lost our cognitive

Sense, began to mime

Words which once we could

Speak, to lose our grasp on

The reality of the wood

And mortar which cut

Us off from the rest of

Humanity, drove a rut

Between our consciousness

And the light beyond,

Quenched any wistfulness

For light, for love, for greater

Things, and left our brains lame,

Reduced to an inability to cater

For our inner selves.  Pressured into

Insanity, we grovelled on the ground,

Our eyes blank, with nothing to

Consider, no reason on which to found

Our release from this human pound.