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When the will to live without a
Constant need to dictate actions
Isn’t simply neutral to the
Mob that puts us into factions,

Everything that isn’t chosen
As the only way to ponder
Finds its purpose for all those in
Power and for those they squander.

Simple joys are now derided
By the petty and the jealous –
Where their anger is then guided
To division by the zealous.

All the people who most need it
Are the ones whose hearts 
are broken –
Though they’ll 
likely never heed it
When their inner voice 
has spoken.

Their creative spark is buried
Under soil that’s cold and fallow;
Its revival will be carried
By the hands that 
cease their sorrow.