To dance with lethal potential
Like a bare chested capoeirista
Is that not true poetry?
Sat behind every chain store desk
Lurks that spirit
Hiding behind the tired eyes of every
Faceless ballpoint bureaucrat
Spreadsheets keep the lights on
And the spirit encased
to material values
less than the price of one bulb
Discarded in the corner like an artist in solitary confinement
Smeared in their own faeces
Unable to dream
mutilated for performing the most natural of acts
If a holy war is a conversation with god
Then the conversation must always be an argument
A single scribbled line on smuggled toilet paper holds more honour, humanity, divinity
Than a million martyred killers
So which prison should one choose?
Or is this a choice at all?
Divinity and Agency are not renowned as easy bedfellows
Perhaps the sole moment of recognition
Will come when you are already dancing, starving in the dark