Attempting to meet the expectations, Silently held yet screaming from every eye, The unlucky lucky learn they do not fit – That they are broken in a way that Threatens to make them whole if only They refuse to capitulate to the demands So valued by those having sold their souls For but an illusion of comforting conformity. Yet there is a process without a choice That lies beyond the walls of the quo Which is not accompanied by status But rather with the corner-eyed glance And the whispered judgment reflecting The valueless value to which we believe We are called in our haste to settle for The answer which in truth is no answer. Oddly, the breaking free must be Preceded by a breaking down, for How could it really be otherwise? For the frame must be obliterated, Not merely taken apart, lest it be Reassembled and the shackles reappear, Renting the dead man’s haunted house To an unsuspecting parent with child. Between the rustling of the leaves and The hot poker finding a dwelling place In the tender flesh of the inner thighs There is a truth burning deep within The long, illogical logic of our history. What is denied will surface like the blood Seeping through the bone fragmented walls That were so meticulously cleaned without care. Standing on the precipice of what might Be and what has been called forth but Not yet been allowed to rise to the surface, We struggle to recall the way our shins hurt On those summer nights when reality was First stretched beyond reasonable limits. We believe that now we may have a choice, But have things ever been as they seem?