Anarchist Poem by RAJ VIKRAM

There was that anarchist
who hated the limits,
but was bogged down by them.
Cringed, cried, lamented
yet end of the day remained
the boring same.
Escape routes were there
dime a dozen but
couldnt move even a wee bit.
Stuck in the rut of
stymieing constance,
the urge to move on has
disappeared into thin air.
There was that anarchist,
who was still born.
Now there is that conformist,
dragging on hopelessly.