Silence paralyses, or so it would seem to those with empty papers and momentary words.
A reprieve in a blink of summer, the drudgery of the United Klouds vacate.
I’ve rediscovered my world, as if a marital feud ceased with a glance of all its bounty.
Beauty, peace and a true love, I cry in refrain.
It’s funny that time evolves all wounds,
We’re thought to heal as a species but we grow carcinogenic,
we grow old and weary of struggle.
We grow tired.
It was wondrous the ever lasting years of yellow dawn,
a love effervescent tickling smiles from a forlorn furrowed brow -a perma-scowl.
and as things fall apart,
I recall it was from the start, we knew of the pre-existing doom
of us two,
we used delusions, positive illusions to negate a real reality.
are all struggles growth? as my hearth flickers hot and cold,
if I am to endure, what besets me? I don’t know if to bestow upon myself
that which draws a weary yawn
as dusk creeps over
8:30 AM and I watch through a mist of resentful defeat,
another facet of this unflinching emotionless machine
A workhouse for the working-poor’s prise possessions.
Afar I see the small distorted faces of those told of their malevolence and evil,
those encouraged to leave quietly,
to think of others, to not make a fuss, being quietly squashed by professionalism’s conformist heel.
The Ruling White Males don’t let a glance escape
an eye’s notice a reserve of punishment and discipline;
too valuable for the mundane pleasantries of the young’s every day.
The Black Females, they’re the Bad Kids,
overly loud, tactile and quite too negroid, their hair illegal fitting
A culture unfitting of moral good behaviour.
It seems the Blacks hate the Gays says the one of the Ruling Males,
the division lies in the beholders blind eye,
unaware that many are one in the same.
Nevertheless, the swathes of young cease,
the school’s front quietens,
the Congolese Janitor closes the gate The Males left open.
And it seemed as if hopes were aloft
asunder from liberty’s grasp.
An ethereal hand washes
against the mundane plight.
I must rest my eyes, before
tomorrow’s light stings my eyes.
It seems like your voice comes only at times of sensitivity
dissonant opinion sharing -your subversive activity
“Don’t shoot the messenger -Oh…”
“I’m just playing Devil’s Advocate”
“People are evil”
-“they’re morally reprobate.”
But I tire of your distinct brand of banter
and your progressive take on the Trump banner,
regardless of what’s good and what is lost
it’ll not be your ethnicity
that pays the cost.
really that’s the only type of honesty there is.
A compliment bubbling through the lips of admiration.
un-tinged by the cynicism of self benefit.
Do I say thanks enough?
To those who do what I’ve come to expect.
To those who meet my assumptions, and fulfill my needs.
I wave a soon forgotten thanks
to those paused at the zebra crossing
allowing me to just catch the tram I would have just been late for.
My friends and family, bastions of support and love,
I see you,
even if my words do not reach your ears.
Perhaps I do not give enough meaningful thanks,
as I applaud my own hard work’s achievements.
But I’d be floored without your outstretched arms, your words
repairing my ego raising a coy smile.
Perhaps I shy away,
to give thanks is to admit a weakness, a vulnerability
healed by another’s words and actions,
a naked appreciation masked in a mini shame.
And so I’d like to thank you Ashley,
for all you’ve done
doing nothing special at all.
What lingers in the air is the scent of, mum’s cooking
cooked by someone’s Aunty from Spanish-town.
New black Bimmers pulling up
to get a recession priced chicken & rice.
Prams and pushers slowing down the 312,
and some fool claims his new oyster card’s ‘in the post‘.
The sky’s blue,
cracking through new build Aldi and the ancient maisonette.
It’s quiet today, the school children at home preparing for school tomorrow,
And the response they’ll give to ‘Where’s your homework!?’
And still after 20 years I love you all the same.
Wise to your failings and flaws.
and your trembling peace.
I rest in the life of another,
in a dishonest past;
a retouched memory,
sombre, stained a rose’s hue.
Yielding and regressing,
to a former self;
with sight more tranquil,
wit breathing unspoiled,
though vision untrue,
distorted by a lens seeking solace.