Blind the Soul
We paved over our months and our hours
The same time we covered the forests and flowers.
The calendar directs our time
With lights and signals, man-made lines
That leave our fourth dimension lamed,
Though culture's not alone to blame.
The world – the wild and the paved –
Appears before us every day
Until, as though behind a cloud
The sights don't come through quite as loud.
Life's less than human, less than whole.
Routine and habit blind the soul.
Institutionalized
Your concrete jungle's stiff to rise –
No leaves or creepers, just straight lines.
The constant bustle holds them fast –
Planned obsolescence built to last.
Your money pays and takes its toll.
It's half convenience, half control.
The banks and buildings, roads and cars
Are really all the same thing – bars.
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