(Part of the series: On the Establishment, Care, and Maintenance of Personal Social Parameters)
I am running off into the woods:
I can’t take it any more.
Far too much stupidity
from far too many boors.
Off into the quiet woods,
with no talk of various gods,
no ideological dogma
spewed from plastic-minded frauds.
No fences in this forest deep,
not a uniform in sight:
not a storm cloud in cerulean sky:
quiet peace, with dappled light.
Willful stupidity offends me,
and it now seems epidemic:
love and logic have been erased,
and hate has become systemic.
I know I should stand and scream,
and man the battle lines;
but I have grown too old, too fast,
to hope for better times.
So I’ll hide in my intellectual woods,
and heal in shadowed tranquillity;
and wait, dreaming of a world
devoid of hate, tribes, and hostility.