King of the Manoland

 

I watched the coach on the glass screen,

Sincere and polished, her demeanor keen,

But her chords fell flat on a heart grown tired

Of the frantic sparks that the world desired.

I seek the low light, the laid-back flow,

Where the ego’s embers finally go.

I saw myself in the digital mirror—

A stutter of fear, a lack of clarity’s mirror.

“Train!” cried the voice, “or lose the fight! Face the bullets in the dead of night!”

But the battle-cry felt like a dusty lie,

Underneath the vastness of an inner sky.

For I have found a hidden, holy ground,

Where the weight of judgment is never found.

I call it Manoland—a dream-swept space,

Where I run and jump at my own pace.

A no-man’s land where the borders fade,

Away from the plans that the "healers" made.

I polevault through thoughts, I somersault free,

I am the wind, the salt, and the sea.

Let the "post-doc" logic rub salt in the wound,

While my soul to a higher joy is attuned.

It isn't a sermon; it isn't a vice—

It’s the breath of a man who won’t think twice.

The chains have snapped from the norms of old,

The story of "healing" has all been told.

I am alive—not for the record or the crowd—

But for the unborn voice, singing soft and loud.

It was me all along, in the bliss, in the heat,

Dancing on the world with my own two feet.

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