A Discretionary Servitude

In the realm volitionally torrid
That the comestible is a daylight sweven
Emerges the wretched in abjectness
Whose limbs are in a taut manacle
Minds self-locked in the vacuum
Eyes obfuscated by the ignoration
That they neither think nor see
No, they don't walk nor crawl
But rather yap in the conferment
Commendating the wardens of their privation
With keys to their liberty of minds
Not the eyes for they have
But instead allege not to be in cognizant of
For they believe in the ethnology
That they whisper in their hearts,
'If I see they'll thrive'
Not asking themselves, 'what of me?'
This query reels on my head
When that day will heave in sight,
That hour, minute and second they'll choose to see
And cut off the manacles off their limbs,
Break the vacuum and take in their minds
To make them know they're discretionary abjects
Whose preferences are within their reach
That need no expertise, but a trivial endeavor
To quell the torridity and make the sustenance a reality

©chris~pine

By The Untamed Ink

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