When spring is come
Freedom is but the illusion of choice,
this dam that breaks when spring is come
that sweeps away our will to change
and smothers us into awakened sleep.
We seek the glue that holds us fast,
the nails that shut us off,
the dirt that makes our hopes long last
as it lies above our slumbering corpse.
The morbid curiosity of lucid seers
shan't liberate the mortal minds,
yet the creators of verbal arts
may well craft the urn that'll hold
your ashes cold when time is past
and spring is come, or so you'll hope.
