Like a captive hurtling towards freedom
He reaches out for the fangs
Of the spitting spigot.
Groping warily for this wayward son
She catches the sweet stings on her hands
And becomes a reluctant convert.
Perhaps he heard the calling
Beyond the swirling mists
Causing him to skirt the warning
Of those scolding fists.
He is of my tribe
A pursuer of his cause
Who lets the indignations slide
For the greater good of the cause.
I shall follow this virgin road
Undeterred by the premonitions of my friend.
For like the child who went against the mode
I aim to triumph in the end.