My Vision's Tomb
This breathing box, this imprisoning womb,
Is my vision’s tomb.
Birthing lineal contours, knives that cut ingenuity,
Patriarchal forms, notions, popular standards strangle voice within a vast continuity.
Exhaling vapors of bias, a restrained will locates no way.
Migrating from subject to subject, my mind is astray.
I crave to break free,
To just be.
No walls hem in a blaze of thought,
Blooms and seedlings are the only true teachers I ever got.
I wish intrinsic values would cohabit with education,
And crack through this crumbling foundation.
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