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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John Talbot Ross