Growth 6

I am born of the American Bourgeois.
The path has been beaten ahead,
but for how long can I stand
beside a thorny rose and call it
pretty.
With darkened woods around a strip of barren trees
carved to form a path, I stay with the pack.
With pocket watches, pipes, and pin-up stripes,
and slaves hanging on their chains.
I do not stray, I stay with the pack,
with coca-cola and hookers.
I do not stray, I stay with the pack
for I am man and I know my plague-
of death-
I know of darkness beside the path,
I've heard of God, and I've heard of wrath.
I've heard of fruits that tempt me so
that constrict my stomach, so shall I perish.
I've heard the fate of Alexander Supertramp,
who left Christopher McCandless with the pack.
and the moss on the bottom of the downward stone
has life, and water. I can ring it dry and squeeze
until I am no longer parched, but only when I'm desperate.
There is life, however small, that will grow inside me.
Even should I find a river or creek
it may be filled with leaches.
Or perhaps I'll find another path, with another pack grown weak and weary.
I'll hide myself against the woods, and if they see, they'll fear me.
I will not join, but I'll run ahead, and see to where they're going
But on my way, I won't survive, because no one makes it to the end.
American Bourgeois, you've kept me tied,
but still you keep me going.
Yes, I know of pain of death,
but still, I can't help knowing...
I'm a slave on a chain that I can break,
should I run, follow in my wake.