Asked for an escape into,
There lived a pessimist holed up on a mountain cliff,
It's worse than any abyss.
It's the last place you will seek, some call it freedom but others;
Loneliness. You call it a hermit's tomb.
Smoke wooden fires, they glow and burn.
They make you suffocate with the freedom around you.
Chillums are alit and called the ashram like masked men,
Always masked men. They will wait with a bowl. Until you call.
Dogs are getting better meat than you,
A banker turned baba, a fake serpent with his fangs inside his robes.
Your women were used and abused and refused,
while you slept your ignorant slumber.
Should you know the truth and suffer?
Should I hide you from the wombs pain and keep you happy,
like a babe in his cot; stupid till age takes his toll
On you. On me. On everyone. Time is the all-in winner.
Today. Tomorrow you will still be a hypocrite.
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