Sitting in Michael's Lap
You fabricate reality to suit your rigid taste --
Intelligence is atrophied, and genius goes to waste --
Neatly trapped in the confines
Of your narrow little minds,
You celebrate your travesty: a miracle disgraced.
Insatiably, you probe the darkest reaches of my mind,
For what I am does not embrace the patterns you've defined.
Content, for all the world to see,
To rot in your complacency:
A servant to the status quo, whose cancer made you blind.
Intent on placing limits on a thing that knows no bounds,
You cling to suppositions my unfettered soul confounds;
Imagination is a crime,
But even that will fade, in time:
You denigrate creative thought, pronouncing it unsound.
A ruthless order to your thoughts, painstakingly ingrained
To strip away the core of you, till nothing else remains;
It is a well-worn path you plod,
But I can see your way is flawed:
Oblivious, you labor on, and label me "insane."
"Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, morierus"
(Now as I hear this bell tolling softly for another, it says to me, "Thou must die.")