When my poetic pen touched
dormant words, they gained life, beauty and boundless meanings.

And the delusional rule of our subjects
are subjected in subjective
in the democratic tyranny over free wills
their 'power' so underwhelming
in the evident fracas of
matter over minds
the complexities of real power
is beyond the preambles of subjects
subjected in subjective deductions
sheep don't do complexities
they gambol, graze and end as muttons
spinning wool and dying wool are not
subjective art of shorn subjects

it’s getting late and my head is getting fuzzy.

why am I in this world?

i am not sad today, thankfully.

i’m just here.

alive.

but not well.