The crucifix of independence,
The wooden odour of life,
Sawdust kith spews upon the graveyard,
Once the carved model screams.
Objective work has socialist whores,
Subjective narrative parallels a thousand streams of choked reason,
Coughing up bloody money.
Is art just for argument’s sake,
Philosophy for my sake,
Or is it a soul searching for soul?
Why do I dream of delirious orgies of togetherness?
Once my consciousness has been declared a sovereign republic by my feudal masters,
Is this the freedom I live for,
Or is this the freedom which will kill me.
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