Sure, it’s cute enough for a t-shirt, but Its words are without richness. Men are real enough alright, they are. Beating eggs mere practice for the brutality in the craft of oppression, oligarchy bent on choking the souls of the multitude. Passive man wrestles with himself, curbs his primal senses toward humanity. Real is a word made from our darkness. Men are wide-eyed singular flesh and bone. Peaceful man is neither violent nor bent, Civilization, his champion, his tutor, his sin. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)