Psychic Terrorism; Deconstruction, Assault, of all Socially-Constructed Boundaries of Self,

This life, as prisoners of circumstance -

Circumstance borne from cages of limiting perception,

Primordial freedom of bardic vigor,

Those old bardic songs,

Visionary plains of heroic verse,

Surrendered to this laborious human zoo by coercive force,

Against all reason and will, we all now agree to partake -

where, when, at birth, its point of origin, ask - it is a universal unknown:

Met with silence, man, whose (captive) soul and amnesia, held hostage by an invisible social contract whose representatives seem reluctant to display,

Harvested like the animals upon whom he depends,

With whom they say was once in symbiosis.

If only such memories were the domain of passing night terror or poetic license,

Dehumanized creatures, totemic companions of land, sea and open skies:

Birds of prey, caught, caged, trapped: social animals,

Taken without respect for either blood or flesh:

Prisoners now estranged from the wild and chaotic from whence taken,

The mystery of life once lived between the only borders known

to (man): The liminal boundary between life and death,

Closed to us, shut, long ago, existence as exile;

Patterns of time, met with the present moment, rendered meaningless in

the search amongst memories' monotony,

The darkness of long nights

And the thunderous permutations of open winds

Now the product of another's entertainment or profit,

Relinquishment of personal freedom traded

For the domesticity of comfort per another's sadistic joy,

Hapless creatures without either dignity or pride.

True freedom is now an ancient, forgotten memory,

An old song,

Lost in the revelry of symbolic imagery,

Whose wardens, armed guardians of consensus, silence and condemn,

Though the few prisoners,

Like the homeless, the broken, vagrant and intoxicated mad, sometimes sing,

Even when clearly resigned to a fate of misery and slow, protracted, painful Condemnation,

Left to die like disposable boulevards of burning trash,

Whose insanity speaks more sense than those who appear normal,

The surrounding objects, oblivious, who care not one iota,

Possessed as they are by the frantic search to satisfy endless desire;

Paleolithic memory of mythopoetic atavism,

This Civilisation marching forward in lockstep,

While no doubt, there is still something out there, hidden, killing,

perhaps hunting, whatever is left of the human spirit.