Hayden

I'm no different than the boy next to me: Both of us too ugly for the public eye. Beneath the layers or cloth and talk, We are of the same Monstrous, malleable, material. We are the clay to be fired. Greater minds will shape us and paint us. And we, being young and simple, Will participate enthusiastically In the rape of our intellect. We both hear the whispering too; It beckons us down hallways and turns; It leads us through twistings and windings. We chase it down, here and there, In books and writings and songs. It is only a murmur, half formed words, The remnants of half-known dreams, but it stays with us always, forever, at the backs of our minds. Soon a roar overtakes it all. Stories that are jammed down our throats, Facts spewed from the mouths of the wise, Make the whispers of past, present, future, But distractions to the strenuous study. We are told and formed to do this; We are taken from ourselves and each other, And placed in ransomed ovens. They set this batch on proficient And they walk away proud.