The Race and the Ruse

It is always within 

That the without

cannot explain.

There's a system, 

you see,

Its cogs and its pistons, 

which routinise

and mechanise men. 

Spirits torn

And bodies broken,

all to obtain

perfection, 

when perfect men turn around 

and descend the ladder again 

for hopelessness. 

Domesticated 

In a cage of fear,

when we were born 

to be wild, 

behind glass that we could break 

with a breath, 

if we would just breathe, 

would shatter with a word, 

if we would but speak. 

And we seldom wonder,

for we have always been told 

we are the choosers. 

We seldom wonder at anything 

but these skin and bones.

Content to do as we're told,

It all makes sense,

But these songs 

keep rising 

from our mouths, 

Rising from the deepest place,

songs the world has never heard, 

had never planned us to sing. 

And we start to wonder, 

in that moment, 

if this skin is just a a suit, 

if the race we're running 

is a ruse to keep us 

from stopping and wondering, 

if the strange pulse 

we feel in our veins is

more than blood, 

but spirit.