Civilized man sought to turn me
into his beast of burden
with enforced wake up calls
and a daily, repetitive pattern
of sleepwalking through the weekly grind
loading piles of manure onto a steely spine
teeth set in stone
jaw becomes rigid
legs hoof it up
a diverse terrain.
Post-human seeks to turn me
into an automaton
with virtual realities
and nanosecond convenience
of robotic maneuvers
and speed of light processing
veins become plasticized, tongues parched
and a lead heart
still-born.
The wilderness of my soul
grows vacant and weary
it withdraws
from societal expectations,
of compulsory compliance,
of must do's and gotta have's.
The wilderness of my soul
grows worried and perplexed
it contracts
at further separation
between.
For my spirit is a garden
it sits in a dank and dark repose
gathering puddles of photosynthesis
and pools of stored nutrients
chromosomes and cells slow to accumulate
yet awaiting the moment
to burst forth and emerge.
Without soil to dig down,
dirt to cover up,
air to inflate,
wind for dissemination,
water for hydration,
and light for sustenance,
What seeds shall be sown?
What bulbs will bloom?
What, then, will grow?
