Dark in the Park
Pumping heart, slowed with every emotion; flattened and gasping for air space.
Room to slip a tear duct washer; a bleeding lonely resistance.
To open closed cupboards, full of dust and time.
More exposing than a rock of rage
A carved monolith of ideas, chiselled into a broken spirit
Frail as a butterflies antennae; blasted inside a vacuum.
A stream of desperate scavengers peck at the chicken breast
Tearing the last gasp of meagre meaning from street bound balloon salesman
Sweep on the greenish grey waves crashing on the rusty bars of a spent retainer
Gasp for ear space as splashes merge skywards
Bricks crumble under the weight of petrified corpses
Corrupted conditioning dictates falling growing, flying, blowing misery
Powerless excess sapping the genius from the groins of ordinary beings.
Organised law schemes beat well meaning intent,
Eyes gorged in soap opera conditioning,
That recycle torment with antagonistic daily struggling slagging matches.
Setting fire to bonds of political justice
Not known, just outcast
Besieged and stranded
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2014