Sterile

To inject rules intravenously in society depraves those with no chance,

A finite idea of escape must be cultivated in order to see the sun,

But with no tools this home is an encampment of sterile souls,

Who overlook the valley many monarchs land grab,

Then barter with only the fairest of currencies,

Because money speaks race, religion, creed, with a bellowing voice,

All listen, some more than others,

And those who bring change get paid minor attention,

With no patience for their meager wallets,

“What could possibly be earned from conversation”,

& Only gold can be struck by those who brave the isms’ and mines,

Willing to pick with awareness and axe questions till limitless answers timber among us,

For many pupils are fixated on glass houses with animals on display,

Empty rooms with a mural view for those who can only look up at this unconscious demigod’s show

To be perfect is to be flawed,

To produce peace is to make love our law