Political Junkyard Dogs

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

Bark loud,
bare your teeth,
growl some fear,
bellows the master,
gripping the chain,
choking and whipping,
burrowing his will deep into soft matter,
once of connected neural sparks,
perpetual holiday glow,
now lit by dimming light,
the moonlight glint of razor wire captivity,
walling in all that's left.

How calm once
must have been this new-born sentience,
this simple love,
born of gentle nuzzling caress,
a mother's honor to care,
given with innate affection,
nurtured,
attended,
guided,
until...

Somewhere along maturation's path
fear-mongers lobbied,
peacenik-slurs became the battle cry
as 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.

Paranoia began its insidious creep.

The bloodstream'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 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 we 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.