The Prisoner
By Jonathan Berman

The Prisoner

The droplet is the sea and we are the earth.
You did not sign up for this, but your ticket was punched at birth.
Where did you get it, to have it in your hand?
Are you here once or again, or even part of a plan?

There are ghosts in the machine, a testament of all you've been.
The grooves of a record, going over and over and over again.
The self is not righteous, it is a tool we use and abuse
Why worry about the weapons that we did not choose?

Stop when you find yourself reaching, for the little things that bind you
You've called out a search, and emptied your name,
and that is how we will find