Reverie

Mountains of dusty truths
we don't climb to question.
Forests of forbidden answers
we don't wander to seek.
We remain so consistent in these
hand-me-down humdrum habits
that we fall in love
with the embrace of ankle bracelets
meant to protect us from what's out there
and what's been.

We're the prisoners, and we're the guards
protecting the prison at all costs.
We're born here and bred.
This is our home and it's imperfect.
We won't let the anarchists burn it down,
or the scientists exile us with their explainations.
We won't let the historians tell the truth about the blood on the walls.
Or the rebels protest the gods.
We're so used to the prison
that we don't want to be set free
so long as we can be persistent
in devotion to our imprisoners.

Love for the ritual has made us so habitual
that to usher in a newer world, we must
resist the silver and gold of this one.
How can I tell you, my brothers and sisters,
the pinhole is not the source of all light
only an unrepaired crack,
and destitution that burns our bellies 
is only a control variable in their program.

We're so used to the unfair world that we forget
it's fair to some because they were the first ones
to ask why can't they have it all if it can be had all,
and they had it all because they questioned.
So despondency is the nauseating pill
we took when we were born
with a borrow of struggle,
and those who dared to sneakily hide these pills
under the shelter of their tongues
saw that the simulation wasn't controlled
by demigods, any stronger than men,
they made us choose between
two pills of their picking,
and we couldn't even muster the will to say
"NONE OF THE ABOVE"

Fear of execution makes us turn a blind eye
to the meekness of the old executioner that can
barely pull itself to draw the ax,
but don't judge the god, gods do that.
Perhaps, every century a reverie is born
that questions the simulation only to fill
the opening for the dying god.

Are you a Reverie?