Ernest

Ernest

Ernestly tell me,
how do you ride a bull
in these days of dying virtues?
When every boy is taught to be a girl,
and every girl is forgotten
inside her true beauty.

A day
when we no longer make any noise,
a day of peace.

A day
when the structures around us
squeeze us into a shapeless form.

We are building men
who acquiesce to all,
tongues tied to every dime
they will ever make.

Bullfighters
inside a ring,
firmly holding their white cape,
reasoning with the beast.

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