Your House is Not Our Home

Elora, Ian Spence

Airways like barricades; your notes are dead to me.
A deaf ear to the nonsense bred to restrict the conscious
…just to dilute our progress.
This is a twisted war, with censored signs of conflict
In the land of the free made by slaves, no reparation paid
No education to disclose the tactics
Censorship is your tool, where ignorance is your practice
And you build dream houses, with glass ceilings
Look up and the sky’s the limit so you can only imagine,
Look around and your held captive in your oppressor’s mansion
In a space that dictates your freedom of motion
Until you realize dreams cannot be confined
And freedom cannot be measured in liberties denied
Because it (freedom) exists as a state of mind
So until we frame ourselves with love crimes of the revolutionary kind
How can we feel at home?