Inside Poem by Jan Sand

Inside



To me
It is strange
That some arrange
Their attitudes,
The working of their minds,
With platitudes to make them comply
With domination. They would, it seems to me,
Deny a basic central surge
To be themselves.
All action is, of course,
Tempered by prudence.
But there is (or should be)
An inner realm inviolate.
Not for sale. Not to man.
Not to God. It declares
Here is my sod. Here I reign.
You may not intrude into my lair.
Invade, and I resist.
I am a fist.

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