The Institution

July 29, 2016

Everyday I wake up in a building with fifty floors,

Five hundred and thirty five hallways, and seventeen thousand doors

Which hide the cubicles of three hundred and thirty million drones,

Who glance down corridors using the screens of their phones.

 

And they believe they know what lies beyond their frames

So they hold no desire to search for realms that aren't the same

As if they don't realize they can simply walk away

From the room that binds them yet they remain content and stay

Stationary with their pliable eyes glued to the user interface

Of the institution's tool which keeps them in their place.

 

For they can not avoid seeing the things which they fear

Scrolling through the feeds which shackle them to the rod of the puppeteer

Who twists these wires to control what his puppets do and say

Simultaneously forming a noose around the necks of those who stray away.

 

Sometimes I believe that they think this noose is real

They all seem to gasp when someone breaks that great seal

I fear that they can't grasp the concept of living without guidance

from the shackles they share, that cultivate compliance.

 

One of many in this bleak domicile doomed to remain divided

By whom they choose to listen to, the ones who remain misguided.

I drift from hall to hall and wonder if we are misguided, the drones like me,

The ones who are tired of looking at the screen, people who long to be free.



 

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