REFUGE RESISTANCE (a poem)

Thursday, July 10, 2025

A Broadcast from the Quiet Watchers, under surveillance, under breath

Be wary.
The dangerous ideals of democracy—
they glint like shattered glass in the sun,
and the king is watching.

Not the cartoon crown or the ceremonial throne,
but the deep eye behind the curtain,
the one that logs keystrokes
and measures allegiance in silence.

God sees it.
And any other conscience—baked in regulation,
coded into bylaws, or murmured in sacred halls.
Still, the elite steppers find the cracks,
twist virtue into leverage,
and press the throat until compliance whimpers back:
“We see it your way."

But this doesn’t feel like healthy resistance.
Not the standard brand,
not the usual burn-it-down,
not the old rebel songs from the basement press.

This is something else.

A co-opting, a surgical bypass,
a worm into the core system—
penetrating the bureau,
hijacking the master board.
The puppeteer now wears a mask
that looks suspiciously like our own.

The circus spins.
The theater plays.
As it ever was.

So stop.
Breathe.

Hear the traffic and its stubborn rhythm.
The seagulls shriek their timeless script.
Somewhere, a ship horn echoes across the harbor—
reminding you the world still moves,
even under watch.

Smile, and become a refuge.
Not a warrior.
Not a martyr.
But a safehouse of spirit.

The Schindler types.
The quiet blockers.
Those who stand in the way.

To Viktor Frankl,
whose life reminded us:
meaning survives the camps
when we choose our response,
even with no control over the stimulus.

✦ May he rest in peace. ✦

✧ KEY THEMES