UTOPIA FALLING Oh dark Sibelian forest, my wounded, brooding self, hide me from my friends whose slyly hidden interest slips with subtle stealth, conceding to venal trends the honor and working trust that we shun the rule of wealth, growing beyond its narrow scope to dream and build this Utopian nest, yet snuff the final believing spark in obligatory niceness' suffocating pall, since special privileges cannot be earned and ego agendas so loathe inspection, each respecting the other's disguise that all in sweetness may safely turn away from any disturbing reflection, soothing politely with gentlest of lies, lest anyone see and hear them burn in my eyes, in my voice and pen beyond my power of choice over and over again. Yet beating so grim this egalitarian drum, my lifelong censure of pampered class, demanding we save our workable dream, did I once again become that quintessential pain in the ass, doggedly pleading the truth unseen, till my option again was give up and run?

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