A fantasmic night venture of my restless mind. In the spirit of Fahrenheit 451 and all things big brotherish, I penned this about a land where that which we assume is suddenly a mortal crime. I only hope it remains a pre-REM nightmare...
and post notes and photos about your poem.
Scheming together years ago, before the weekly executions,
dreaming of days we'd lift the fog of ignorance from the masses
and paradigms of stagnation shifted with cerebral solutions.
To no avail our heady course in theory only passes.
We knew the day, the hour, the minute how texts would be rewritten.
The generation of our spawn in classes they would read it.
History so enthralling, with learning would they be smitten.
Instead the propaganda beast so ravenous and we must feed it.
The old men while away their time with tales of a foiled coupe,
and students smile and avert their stare, it's better to be a number.
The One he loathes such minions who wish to think or do,
so all the day of arduous labor leads to fitful slumber.
Yes you and I, my loyal friend, matyrs in the making,
outwitting cowards that march us to the death of liberty.
But threats and greed lead to your word finally forsaken.
In brutal death at least my soul will wonder this world free.