Silenced, From It's Brow of Morn

I do not live
in a quoted world,
that all too familiar drum
that beats direction,
silenced, from it's
brow of morn,
silenced from it's
scorn,
unfolding to a new world,
void of the sounds
of drone,
where no one is alone,
but given their place
of honour.

I do not believe
in parasitic values,
that constant bleating
of temporary
lips whimpering the
same morbid tune.
Empty of purpose,
where no one is alone,
but given their place
of honour.

And what an honour it is
to be handicapped
of thinking.