At the End of the Day
The voice within, a whisper bruised,
Fights the noise the world has used
To carve a man from primal bone
To cage the beast, to leash the lone.
The mind, a mat where wars unfold,
Instincts wild, but nurtured cold.
They tame him not with chains or rods,
But with applause and wooden Gods.
He wears the mask, rehearsed and tight,
Performs by day, forgets by night.
Painted smiles, a jester’s role
Each laugh, a wounded soul.
Temptation hangs like a golden fruit,
But plucked, it tastes of ash and soot.
He dances for a wage, a name,
A line in ledgers, rank and fame.
Rituals rot in daily spin,
A prayer to clocks, a suit for sin.
Validation, the new divine,
Poured like wine to numb decline.
Frustration bubbles, seeks escape,
But lids get screwed in human shape.
No scream escapes the echo’s hold,
The cage is warm, the bars are gold.
A one-way street with silent bends,
From cradle’s cry to coffin ends.
And what shall grace his stone in sleep?
“He lived to please. He died too deep.”
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