Thoughts on a White Firehydrant

'Mid Yellow, gray, and green, the pillar stands washed white, alone, erect, true masculine. Cold metal molded by such thoughtless hands stands out boldly; old reminders of what had been and still is, ceaseless whispers never die. The serpent tongue holds godly truth on ground: unchanging sheep, they bleat along the lie, and hemmed in by the lie they bleat around. They’re stuck there, blind and never free to see that eyeless beasts are easily reigned. Is this the way we will always be? The white washed pillar: bible bound and chained? So, why do we allow their rules to rule our thoughts? Bleat little sheep. The door is shut, my life rots.