The War of Worlds

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Tension builds within. The tensions mount without. In my innermost desire I yearn for the American dream. A simple house that is enough, and a lot of land that separates the peace within and the chaos without. I can see my dream washed in golden light, scintillating and bathed in radiance. I can see the red blood contrasted the pure white, from the sucking stab wound of governance. My desire for solitary peace unmolested by bureaucratic dominance has been held captive by the all consuming predatory machine. The freedom I long for within, is at odds with the monster without. I can feel the air fill my lungs within. I can feel the anger over my skin without. The sleepless nights, and the sleepless days, spent building the empires of another. The line between indentured service and slavery indicates that there is somewhere someone can go.

My dreams seem so distant and fanciful though I know in the deepest parts of my heart that they're footed in plausibility. Like a fable involving some talking mouse inspired to teach some parable, the elements are real, but it still feels like slavery. I speak to God on the issue of my oppression. My cage is adorned with decadence, like a canary held near the window watching the other birds fly. I watch as the others rise up to play and like Ballam, I envy them in a sense. The soul within, contends with the flesh without. The desires to be known and to know, and to hold and held with the fullness of trust and honesty... its marred by death and history. I am a broken mind and a broken body. I am a strong will armoured in rusted plate. A relic of an old time, forged in young bones. Tired within, tired without.