Ocher

I’ve seen great men reduced to orange aprons;
begrudging breaths for their resilience,
garbed in dirt, stammering nonsense,
shuffling along the proletariat rat maze.

I’ve felt repetition’s sting become monotony;
leeching desire, leashing dreams,
offering myopic solace
that bleeds at the periphery.

I’ve worn despondency in self-wrought shackles;
lynching individuality, sowing conformity,
gnawing tirelessly at gilded ambition’s
self-fulfilling prophecy.