Slave to the silhouettes
of better men.
Though they see
me as I am,
I falter in the doublethink
that heralds in another day
of opaque obstinance.
I lie awake in regret of
how I ended up, where we’ve been,
yet all the more curious of that
radiance behind the outline.
Hatred borne of fear
hidden in the darkness
of privilege and wit,
can’t be undone nor reset.
So we stay concealed, contained
in the blackened frame
of something called liberalism.
Yet we wait to try our hand
at turning the wheel, to glimpse
what it means to be those who conceal,
and hopefully we’ll be better then too.
Hey, so this one was in response to a writing challenge on HitRECord and was inspired by the abstract piece “Lamp Clock”. You can find that challenge and some other very well written contributions here.