We’re all lashed <br />to Cultural Helms <br />besodden <br />ingrained eyes <br />narrowed to squinty plane <br />seeing; <br />not seeing <br />only mine; <br />and not mine <br />blind. <br /> <br />Culture is the Gardener's Death <br />who’s kind to only one flower; <br />other's bloom in the garden darkened <br />by blindness over-powered. <br /> <br />Strain some may <br />against the mast <br />yet they most times <br />cultivate only their own gardens; <br />time and the past <br />cause other flowers <br />to bloom and wither <br />before our very countenance. <br /> <br />Tempted we may be <br />by soul's desire <br />to look beyond the garden walls: <br />But few cannot, <br />but lift the spade <br />and plow the same furrows, <br />which etch our brow <br />contain our lives <br />until our death <br />we having known <br />only one garden flower: <br />grown beautifully <br />in straight <br />and narrow furrows. <br /> <br />A few sometimes <br />smell other blooms <br />thereby open up <br />genius <br />which is <br />simply <br />being willing <br />to sip and know <br />Not Like We-Ness.<br /><br />Lonnie Hicks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/culture-flowers/
