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Writer's pictureRussell Jacklin

A franchise of my soul



I felt my life diminished

The smallest of my dreams, suppressed,

There before me stood a man of conviction assuring me I need not feel oppressed.

Like the pied piper, he whistled. I listened.

Ancient Arcadia, his land of hope

Where I could escape the rigours of conformity

That hung around my neck like a rope

Simply cradle in the soft arms of Morpheus

Safe from the subjugator's heel

Where I’m tightly trussed and manacled

Within an inescapable cage of steel

Everything mentioned seemed to invite

no more scrapping an existence hand to mouth

Travelling perched in the saddle of depression

Onward to a promised land, my curiosity aroused

Finally evading the injustices of the rat race

That consists merely of twenty-four hours of strife

Forward, headlong to a new beginning

A rebooted, different way of life.


The price of redemption, “was not expensive”

That's what the piper had said,

My soul was all that he required. “after all”

“It was useless to me, once I was dead”


But my soul was my true foundation

My one true brick in the wall

To live any life without rhyme or reason

Was no life to live at all

I turned to the black-cloaked man, and I stated,

I would not forfeit my temporal space

Rather than die to receive eternal salvation

I’ll stay interred with the whole human race.



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