The Bottom of The Bowl

Glued together like millet

By the desire for share opinions;

Locked in place by our fear of difference.

We eagerly await the dinner,

Hoping to be a fitting meal

By matching the narrow palates

Of those who fail to transcend our fate.

Better perhaps to be the grain of sand

Left at the bottom of the bowl,

Discarded with distaste and

Deemed unfit for consumption.