To whom shall I turn to inspire
My heart to rise like a spire
Or connect to a wire
Coursing with electric fire?

Who am I to dream this dream
That destroys the regime
Of death, the internecine
Battle that reigns supreme?

What god or prophet dares define
My life or demise, or the line
That follows a grape from the vine
To a cup of treasonous wine?

I am a wanton glance:
Why look at me askance
When I refuse to dance
To the beat of happenstance?

Destiny is not my fate:
Do you see it’s too late
To stand at my gate
In your wardrobe of hate?

O, but what do I do
When all I eschew
Becomes a tattoo
Of wisdom and virtue?

Yes, I grow weary and tired
When your hope expires,
Yet after all that transpires
Still I fight to remain inspired.