Emerson was right, of course.
Each friendship and each contract
Steals a tiny piece of freedom
From the parchment each of us
Is blessed by birth to carry.
Yet, humans to the core are social.
Creatures in a nature that abhors
A vacuum. Our conspiracy
Negotiates with captors,
Hoping always to relinquish
Loneliness instead of character.
The artistry and artifice of living
Boils down to strategy of highest skill.
How does the one self-sacrifice
To serve the greatest good
Without imprisonment and dissolution
Of one’s humanity?