Jump-the-Fence-Junkyard-Dogs

Does it have to be this way?
cries the inner voice,
captured,
bamboozled,
beaten down,
trained to hate,
mostly self.

Bark loud,
bare your teeth,
growl some fear,
bellows the master,
gripping the chain,
goading and bullying,
burrowing his will deep into soft matter
once of connected neural sparks,
perpetual holiday glow,
now lit by fading light,
the moonlit glint of psychic razor wire captivity
striking with all that's left.

How calm once,
this miraculous sentience,
this simple love,
born of gentle nuzzling caresses,
a mother's honor to care,
given with innate affection,
nurtured,
attended,
guided,
until...

Somewhere along maturation's path
fear mongers lobbied,
treacherous slurs became the battle cry,
and violence taught as norm,
seeded fear into possession of arms,
the price one pays
to protect oneself,
says the master.

Others were cited as takers and manipulators
as paranoia began its insidious creep,
the blood stream's contamination grew,
pollution worked its eroding effect
‘til synaptic connections frayed.

Tenuous resolve succumbed,
lights dimmed,
sparks died,
darkness became the light.

Does it have to be this way?

The junkyard dog syndrome
longs for the warmth of what once was,
even as collars cinch tighter,
chains jerk harder,
shouts to obey become louder.

Might there be no answer?

Might many be too far gone?

Might wars of mind
finally capitulate,
drift,
disintegrate,
become but dinner scraps
to be fed to the next generation
perpetuating the endless cycle?

Junkyard dogs
made,
not born,

mad,

not sane.

Such is the gamble…

Hundreds risking Kool-Aid allegiance

might become

millions subservient

to the master’s chain.