Whose Lifes Are Not Their Own

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He stands there,
his shadow adrift from his steps,
as if borrowing a body,
walking within another’s will.

You call him “friend,”
he replies softly:
“My life is not mine.”
His words, like cold flames,
ignite the shackles in your hand.

That hand, drawn by invisible threads,
pulled toward a burning fire,
a fire that holds vows of loyalty,
and scriptures written in commands.

Some self-immolate, calling it honor;
some remain silent, calling it belonging.
But you see:
their souls,
tailored by faith into spare parts,
each embedded in gears beyond question.

Does he love you? You doubt.
One who cannot own his life,
how can he hold sincere affection?

This is not a cult,
but a dream—
a dream that swallows souls,
where the dreamers
live, yet never awaken.

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