Fruits of Labor

Your mind was meant for motion and mission,

Not static, “life,” boxed-up in a prison.

Listen—

Efferent neurons are running the system,

Telling your body: “Far out of condition.”

Chained to a desk, you’re locked in submission.

Ask—

“Blood, why flowing with nowhere to run?”

Betas trapped in a bowl with no sun.

Just caffeine and sugar to flip on the switches;

Swapping out life for biohack *glitches*...

Tell—

Yourself, if you’re roots are too deep.

If it’s time to pull free, to wake from your sleep.

Your feet may remember what it’s like to walk free,

But only if the mind of the eye can still...

See—

All the while witches,

With warlocks, casting the spell

Of sugarplum visions disguising a lukewarm Hell.