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  • Writer's pictureGarathe Den

The Blasphemer

They say labor, perpetually

For the sake of your existence

Just put a smile on

And pretend that it’s a privilege

That you live in a dream

Instead of in a prison

Where a veil over your eyes

Is the epitome of wisdom


And when you ask out

What is the meaning of life

All religions recite

It is strife, it is strife

It is blood sacrifice

At the end of a knife

Dreams buried deep

To let death suffice


So labor in vanity

Set your sights to the plough

Through blood, sweat and tears

May it silence your mouth

May you never object

May you never doubt

May you flow with the current

Of a mindless crowd


All following suit

All striving for stature

For titles that evaporate

Quicker than the rapture

Finding your identity

In something that is captured

Losing your identity

To a system manufactured


While your most earnest of dreams

Are suppressed and sequestered

And the regret of your actions

Through the years start to fester

But instead of seeing truth

You condemn the protesters

Casting off your shame

From the life you have entered


And you boast and you gloat

And you marvel for nothing

Dreams long abandoned

While you sit here just judging

Sought the approval of masses

In the hopes of becoming

A product of the system

In a life so disgusting


With so much invested

You can’t turn back now

Your dreams are a phantom

Haunting a forgotten vow

While you’re pressing on forward

Your hand to the plough

To strive without purpose

Which is what you have allowed


No one here to blame

Except only for yourself

Such a pitiful picture

That you have compelled

And you judge and you jury

And you execute hell

As you blaspheme the dreams

Which you had once held


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