His dilemma

every morning
I rise and face
the firing squad

every morning
there is one
who holds his fire

his dilemma
is my system
of belief

they fire rounds
but I am seldom
in their circle

a quiet mind
is labeled 'sound'
and colored purple

my little boy
has not yet learned
to color within lines

his jumbled diction
has not yet learned
our contradiction

we speak of art
with flaming passion
then do work
void of compassion

and wonder why
reality is bleeding fiction.

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Comments (1)

Who could ever get bored with the moon? Good poem.