I saw the day's dying moments meander over the land leaving
its last remnants of red, amber and gold to the foliage falling about my feet
--
Behold;
A knife is turned
Inward Glances morph stone to ash,
ash to air, engufled in the warm scent
of hopeful despair. Six steps into the slipstream
standing sedentary, sun fading on the horizon, pleasently
mirroring the rising, rallying, revolution against the dark of night.
A half-turn brings all into view; stunned, speechless, surrounded by Light.
--
Twist in the blood, an angry turn of phrase
brewing for years around feet too busy to notice.
Tramped by the slow-moving search for meaning,
hidden in gutters and on walls of plain colour; plain sight
might have obscured life's veracity, drowned it in light,
but Now the search begins in earnest.
Would that I possessed anger, not be possessed by it.
Choking on bile rising with the forgotten force of
hundreds of years of oppression, repression, possession.
An obsession with a righteous cause, stood Fist Raised in
the death of daylight, a hesitant pause breaks the forgotten
beat of the revolutionary drum.
In the darkness, playing dumb has become chic. Not quite
unique but varied enough to appeal to the Culture Vulture
and all its claws, from the hipster school of haughty haircuts
to the barmy army and back again - the problem keeps coming
back again, and so the wheel of woe will turn unabated, turn
unrestricted, turn everything but a corner.
As summer gets warmer, hearts grow colder. Words of
wisdom will wane while a casual response becomes a
full-blown retort. Kid gloves thrown to the ground in this
ideological throw-down. Victory far from guaranteed but
the battle must go down. Raised Fist turned outwards,
relentless rage unleashed on the doubters. Dystopian
fantasy is now a harsh reality. This is it, now is the
time to speak your mind. Let blood run from broken lips
cracked by the harsh air, let eyes swell from tears cooled
by the night fair;
The Night where it was all said and done
and yet nothing was won.
The Night where the same three words
are repeated over and over.
The Night where anger gave birth to an
Idea with the setting of the sun.
The Night where the Idea died - passing
on softly, leaving no mark, nothing to recover.
Nothing to see.
Posts
