Bellow

The world calls to me from below,

And it weeps at me,

Often screaming in its din,

Of off-white noise,

Showing not a mercy,

In its plea, resulting to insult,

Lowering itself further,

To contrived sympathies,

Doubting, cajoling, threatening,

Lovingly feigning,

To care for me,

But at all times pursuing,

The reduction of me,

And I resist with this erect spine,

An ardor to rise,

For my own selfish sake,

Daring,

Steely-eyed,

Peering into the enquiry,

Of my life,

Selfishly,

Shamelessly seduced by,

Communal invitations,

To close this mind,

Against rich but tortured dreams,

That lesser men surrender,

It seems,

To old gods that claim sacrificed lives,

In exchange for the lie of peace,

Lulling what would be great men,

To languish in abridged existences,

Until the ends of them,

My charge, to confront,

With at times,

Even, feigned conviction,

My task, to resist,

Authentic images that bear witness,

To the impendent pains of failed attempts,

To incessantly believe,

In the limitlessness of the limned me,

To silence the machine,

To be free,

So, I devise, even lie,

To the id that furtively rules me,

And I bellow,

To remind myself,

That I am larger,

Than I allow myself,

To be.