Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Being Screwed
Once the wandering nomadic way found the traveler wound by that which freedom furled,
Within its weave of the will to sheathe the day as if it were a weapon to win the world.
When the nomad died, the king was born,
Breed beneath lumped rubble piled by feet who idly fret,
While thorns thickened across those crowns the wicked have worn,
Collecting souls of both who wear it and bear its debt.
Seek not the world for what the kingdom claims to promise as liberty,
For rights are freedom’s termination by the folly of tyrannical trickery.
5/16/18
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2018
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