America is a hotel and control is getting stricter.
The maitre d is killing some
or kicking out the weaker.
Those who stay are forced to say
the ammenities are great.
Each in their own room they feel alone.
They’re sure they’re safe
four walls provide a private place
to indulge in all variety of life and love
But here it comes a one
who’s testing out the bait.
He says too much
implies a lie,
he gives a real opinion.
After the infraction, not knowing it as such,
the hero leaves the room into
the contorted, carpeted hallway.
Accosted by the thought police,
he now knows of the transgession
what he forgot to not think,
Collapsed from brute force,
they cannot kill his spirit.
A long stay in the hospital
to cure or kill,
the induced drugged dream state
will still not interrupt
his passionate drive for justice.
And his meager human life
The knowledge he holds too dear,
to the function of the hotel.
A time of crisis calls for his time to awake
and he’ll happily solve their problem,
but not until he’s tried to bark,
to tell the people of their imperative
inclusion in the solution.
Yet no one trusts
the rebel with his revolutionary garble.
We think this part of his treatment.
We think it’s part of the plot
to put us in the hospital too
or in the grave to rot.
We fear the ideas
escape or change
and settle in lives of ease
appeasing our inside masters.
And keep our distance,
knowing too well what the rebel is capable of.
Once he saves the day,
he runs for greener pasture.
The chase epicly winds across steep hill.
Turning the sympathizer into empathizer,
even obliteration can’t break his will.
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