Speaking my understanding, attained in lonely isolation,
I'm harried by those with their hive mentality's insulation,
as they peer at me from their consolidated consolation;
I cannot recieve a sense of some abiding satisfaction
in daily performed chores, assumed so mindlessly, by each faction,
as though, carrying out repetitive orders grants life traction.
Though, finding no faith in given conceptions of divinity,
those about me serve in fear of some diefied royalty,
seeing the simple tellings of leaves on the surface of their tea;
with a fervent desire of a greater future, I pluck each tree;
despised by those who yearn insect-like inevitability,
they want, only, to rest on a clinging, shriveled leaf, yet unfree.
On increasingly distant lands does the brightness of my sight glow,
unlike the far too many, who travel the same meadow,
always pitched downward, their eyes limiting their gazes, oh, so low;
I, however, forever search for some newer trails to follow,
as others, always beholden to the same, scented flower's tow,
as though they're prisoners to that rotting orchid's unmoving show.