wb :

the chains of illusion are born in the night
and slowly but surely conquer;
no hero can break from their gossamer might
nor resist their ethereal lure.

faint wisps of deception, mere tendrils of smoke,
entwining, corrupting bouquet
invisibly gather, then gently they choke
and lightly on ankles they weigh;

incorporeal yokes on relenting a neck,
the manacles gladly accept
and willingly bend as a beast to a beck,
to a whip of dismay and regret.

look on, on the herd! look, behold them, the slaves-
now slavering at their desires
held out of their reach, all their longings and craves
to stoke their consuming heart-fires;

and chained to a plow, all the oxen with faces,
and turning the earth sown in flood
the harvest of falsehood, the windfall of graces
to slave yet their children, their blood.

their ghostly enslavers have no need for reins
for the people have asked for their binds
anytime they can break from their tenuous chains
for their sinews are bound with their minds.

the chains of illusion are born in the night
and slowly but surely conquer;
no hero can break from their gossamer might
nor resist their ethereal lure.

Labels: poetry