The Yoke Poem by Liane Carlo Suelan

It is a yoke.
It is a yoke that you bring around;
Shackles, chains,
Burdens, and yet you are deaf to the sound,
The song of truth
That all you are bringing
In your youth, as you are youth,
Are naught but men armed with whips,
Cloaked in faux purple fur and gold linen,
Lashing our kindred spirits, soiling your wits,
Making you as their puppet, as one of them - pride-driven -
Forcing you to only hear
The sound of their voices and their desires of flesh,
Forcing you only to fear
Warmth and gentleness and meekness in your soul,
And above all else, goodness and all things orthodox as a whole.

They are monsters.
They are demons intoxicated in their vanity.
They puff sulphur into your lungs,
Into your head, Onto your eyes
So they may muddle your thoughts with fear, with pride, with bent principles,
Have you pray to false gods and worship them:
The god of the pungent leaf;
The god of reckless merriment;
The goddess of blood and flesh;
Cloud your eyes
So you may fail to realize
The flagrant truth, that ever since then
You have been pulling with the yoke of friendship ‘round your neck,
The vain and cruel monsters you call your friends.