I tire of this game, the coils of mortal worlds,
Their mores and rules, the limits of bodies
Drawn from likely lots, lain in neat rows
Beside their kin, these groupings of forms
Keeping bound more than we wish to admit.
Tombstones of aspirations lie across long fields
From the withered heaps of wishes left behind
In the storms of our youth, sometimes rediscovered,
Oft forgotten, the fetters and bureaucracy surround
On every side, a storm’s eye sought for, found.