I thought that maybe you’re no longer free
To think separately from Time’s favored paths
Choosing its well-worn roads to unmarked streets,
Gathering fruitless branches, your trip won’t last.
I can see someday you’ll fall forward,
Tripping over the silent ground face first
Unto fresh scents of petrichor towards
Unforgiving mysteries, your veins burst.
Once again mediocrity loses
Originally born from the same cut
As saintly cowardice’s faint roses
Its fragrance wafts where deadly secrets rut.
When Security crushes pure arts of truth
You’ll pay for the unlived future’s final noose.
Featured Image: “From Pentonville Road Looking West Evening, 1884” by John O’Connor (Museum of London)