Accustoming to the Condition of Ouroboros

Another day, and the tourniquet fastens on the nape.
I'm made to access my faith—rob it of its merit
and bring it to a compromised stance. 
The event is brought forth in my home, 
where everyone steals glances of the defiant.

What even is this defiance against,
what cause has led to such treacherous paths?
what odds did the pig count in his favour,
when caged away, to declare a contrarian stance across the barn?
Against every product, institution, faith, communion of man, 
only to kneel, scathe and escape behind curtains
when the revolt began—infant so to never raise voice, 
or push back the norm.

The ambition didn’t live up to the dream:
the revolt would grow into a malnourished dwarf,
with no chest, height, or spine, 
to wave the same old flag, never ushering a new tide.

After having seen the sun, 
he returned back, to live out the post war dream
in some corner of the cave in his head; 
which would rob him of all sense,
encouraging to harness pain, and push away change, 
effectively embodying the long running norms of the cave.