The artifice of gold,
of silver,
of dreams, 
aspirations drained,
of
soul

It does not sing to me,
a bitter swallow,
a recorder band playing,
Mary had a little lamb—
as it is led to slaughter

Eyes shut tightly
to pretend the numbing
is desirable.

Imagining freedom
and passion and oh
life.

Vision no longer denied
I seek peace.