Imprisoning Volition

It starts simple enough,

One surrendering identity to follow,

Like a simple quail after a lead bird,

Eventually becoming but dust atop

The polished majesty of independence.

How innocuous so many become,

Growing smaller and smaller

In the shadow of progress

Until becoming the look of but one creature,

A ghostly swirl of fragments

In the land of sameness.

Perhaps…

Were their insulation of cowardice disturbed,

The minions would awaken,

Akin to the kicking of a rock

To get the worms moving,

Hating as they do

The light

Of day.

Of course…

Such neophytes become the prey

Of yet a greater sameness.

Unlike the swooping and intricately designed patterns

Of a murmuration of starlings,

Humans will, in a much less beautiful way,

Surrender their independence

For the joyless sense of rote behavior,

Going with the crowd,

Obviating the act of connection with other beings,

Bowing instead to blind joining en mass,

Forfeiting the privilege of prerogative.

For as sentient beings,

We have a choice between fraudulence

And being true to one’s own personality, values and spirit.

To be or not to be

Remains the question.