A Progressive Pat on the Proverbial Back

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I put my hand to the tree

I let my fingers fall across

I feel the texture, the temperature, the contour

It’s real. I know it, as I drag my hand across the bark

The synapses feed the senses, and I know

It’s concrete – it’s cold – it’s truth

I am so confused

How can we doubt what is so physically obvious?

How can we question what is certainly absolute?

Am I so deluded to refuse the existence of the tree?

Its nature? Its state? Its purpose?

Am I so naive and stubborn and egocentric

That I must expect the world to accept my misguided arrogance?

To take my absurd rebellion, and forcibly stitch it into the pages of truth?

In our quest to question everything, we have deconstructed the fabric of reality

And the worlds in the sky look down on our self deception

And they are confounded by the lies we have swallowed

Greedily devouring the destructive agendas of those who would see it all burn

Must we pawn our consciences to buy the right to sell our souls?

And the bidder isn’t even bidding high

We tout our titles, as if we are apart of some enlightened movement

But we are plunging so obviously into a hell we are not prepared for

We have blind-folded our better sense of morality

And frozen the chambers of our hearts – and claim we are filled with love

As we accept that which would see us damned

And encourage that which damns

And damn those who would make it right

Imagine the child with cancer

Imagine that we celebrate his state

Imagine that we seek to grow his cancer

Imagine that in the name of “love” and “acceptance”

We say, “we should not seek to change him”

“We must not be judgmental”

“This is who he is”

How loving are we to celebrate a man’s delusional disorder

And rather than rehabilitate, we encourage his decent into madness?

We affirm his deception, and let him fall deeper into a darkness that is consuming

Yes. You are so full of love. You sentence a man to needless death.

Congratulations. You are progressive. You are relevant.

You have listened to the ques of the mob.

You have swallowed the hook of the depraved.

You dance like the puppet you are.

Dangling from strings you mindlessly allow to move you.

You are guilty of so much desperate evil.

And you sleep at night.

Believing yourself to be full of love.

~j.d.schofield

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