Hit from above by a light,
making things with light,
impossible and portable,
approved and pruned,
groomed to a mortarboard,
butterflies crown the heads of kings,
accept when the Aeneid chimes in and over again,
they chase us,
they consume us,
we don't find use in usefulness,
we find use in uselessness,
we are consumed by guilt,
we are not guilty nor innocent,
our lack of innocence lies in our complacency
That which we have found in these laurels of an education.
Is not this a completion?
Only death is a completion.
You have your indoctrination.
You hold it tight to your breasts.
You hold it tight like a lover you fear will escape to another in the night.
You hold it tight like a child you wish to keep in the nest.
You are afraid to add to or re-examine what you think you know.