Dilantha Snowden – The Prisoner of Paradise

I’m no nationalist – I’m allergic to
Symbols venerating lion’s blood
Nor do I write trendy poems
To reconcile butchers – on both sides –
With their cuts of meat
I’m just a catholic boy – in a man’s boots
With a healthy dose of stranger’s syndrome
Inside my pocket-sized home
After all I’m a prisoner of paradise
No man admits to – as the present is erased
By correction fluid and the future toyed
In a juggling act of clowns
As the past holds me, grounding me
To my not-so-elusive identity

I don’t follow popular causes
– cricket being the exception
I don’t join parades nor am I a carrier
Of gossip or lies carelessly boxed
Inside bitter-coated chambers
Not knowing the harm of the grapevine
Slithering through neuronal cracks
Ferrying across synapses, forming ill-opinions
Arming prejudice

I’m no Jesus though
Just a boy who looks at a beggar
In beard and sandals – as seen on church alters
Knowing the might of the truth
When in a procession of iconoclasts
I stand, from Jesus to Copernicus
And to my shadow, after all I called out
“technology” and now I’m the Edward Snowden
No one talks about or shouts for
A mere blip fading in the Bermuda Triangle
Of absent consciences
After all it is said justice – the truest kind
Is always a dish served cold

Like a salad dressed in apathy

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