Childish Rebellion

My fear was born at the cost of my dreams,
In that empty passageway,
That led me away from my childhood,
And up the stairs to the poorly lit stage,
Where barely sober patrons,
Let their absence seep through their sight,
And latch onto my new found presence.
Ill-located lights blinded me that night,
Blinded me for just a brief enough moment,
To escape the damp cellar of a cell,
Returning instead to the comfortable young heat,
Of true summer.
Reality rushes back with the crash from inside a glass,
Handel ed without too much care,
An injection of sobriety,
In the least needed time.
Behind me, the steps of conductors were heard,
Boys who took shelter in their controlled imagination,
But left them at the coat check on the last stair.
The crowd, full of brutal eyes,
Lashes out in an attempt to strike back at the history,
That led them to give up control for comfort.
Men, drowning in paralytic impotence, drowning themselves,
Searching for no life raft, only a partner for the depths,
Filled the room in front of me,
Surely and carelessly eroding away any hope of my hope remaining intact.
So I refused, refuted, rebelled.
I ducked behind the molded curtain,
Painfully aware of the lack of light ahead of me,
And the seductive charm of the hollow laughter behind me,
Pushing me far enough away to where I forget the distaste.
I am a free man,
Confined in my cramped escape route,
With no sight to guide me,
No tradition’s footprints to step in:
I am free to redefine humanity in my own dark corner as none before me could.

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