Headed For the Gristmill
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2018
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