a freestyle sonnet about the blank gaze of the comfortable

My human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real. 

Them with the blank gaze of refined days expect ways 
that ain't steeped in the muck of maintaining piecemeal 
existence - subsistence while navigating maze 

of metamodern civilized traps laid around 
like psychic land mines, which a poor man finds with ease. 
Those with eyes glazed by lazy dreams realized and found 
beneath the shade born wealth provides believe degrees 

of separation are merit, proofs of true worth, 
rather than segregation of class by design. 
Divine creation ain't create castes upon birth - 
that's manmade perversion... these delusions of bloodline 

grandeur, to blur all things equal to great divides, 
overlooking how universe truly provides.