Conformity
What is this power that binds me to mine life?
I feel an iron clasp about mine wrist.
Where's kept the jailer's key or butcher's knife?
I must away this place, not sorely missed.
Go forth, away a place devoid of rules
These regulations drive me to escape
But pity not, the same applies for fools
As I am, caught behind the broken tape
To me reply, I pray, for matters stand
On brink of falling deeply in demise
How might I leave this land, as contraband?
Or holding proudly chin to setting skies?
Gareth Dicker
May 30, 2007
