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