Through all the lines of mortal men in fleshly conjugation.
All are born to learn the self within & without their Nation.
Through pale traditions & burned routine sentience is benighted.
Fenced in by habit & stoic lines men are made befrighted.
In static grooves of fretful worry they scheme & machinate.
They stare past the mirror’s pane & on difference ruminate.
Held in sway by sad regard that unlike means inferior.
Conquering horizons far to add to their interior.
Still, men fail to snuff the flames of individuality.
Bind your truth to your true north & lean into equality.
L.B.Stowe 