The cost

Deadly thoughts have entered my gun.
If thick miasma can
be permeated by focused attentions,
the clear truth would be rebellion.

Under the thumb of
a machine without a pulse,
men labor and sing of freedom.

But sunlight rarely touches their faces,
and it just stands to reason,
no beams can burst through brick walls.
The prison, re-enforced with bills and responsibility,
keeps them in its thrall.

It forever hides the racing clouds,
the setting sun,
and the icy twinkling of the night sky,
with a concrete blindfold that covers men's eyes.

But the rebel against
the super power is always lost,
lobotomized, defeated and anathemized.
To be a slave or a sacrifice,
what a choice and what a cost.