Our intellects are mirrored prison stalls, Our common sense the warden by the door. Dead men’s graffiti, scribbled on the walls, Is reason’s legacy— and nothing more. The wisdom of the ancients— never was, For they were men; and men are ruled by fear. The tin man had no heart, there was no OZ, And truths, like wizards, play each tune by ear.
Poem Published in the following books: Homeless In My Heart