Down the Rabbit Hole

 

 

 

They don’t need so many hospitals in the country,

                                                Do they Lord?

For the sickness isn’t as vicious where

The hills and flora, aspire only the nourishment of life!

            Still,

I can hear the silence of the country folk

While those inside the city,

Scream this living absurdity

And pray an early death.

 

Tolstoy’s nowhere to be seen,

Yet within the magazines of insanity

Each weapon loads depravity

And the quickening of madness

Smears brutality on the lame.

 

I’m harbouring a quarrel with the Heavens

As the city’s populous is leathered,

And all the rage that hones it’s

Victims for an afterthought of life

Is the beginnings of the argument,

That steals itself a lie upon existence,

And I see, no-one here is free.

 

Smack up; diamond white or brown!

For it’s the only way compassion bubbles warmth,

But the scars of all we bear in fortitude

Still within the memories of innocence,

Only influence the lie that we were told,

The lie that sold each passion to sewers

Where the effluence of poverty,

Makes parody of love we once adored.

 

Killings getting cheap,

Cheaper by the dozen are the kids

That walk the streets,

And the barristers and judges sit in

Offices not wanting partake in this

Complicity of sadness, and humbled by

The Port they’re shedding tears of hurt

For what they’ve witnessed happen to their fellow

Man, and honesty bears no credence in the courts

While executives in power seek the saturation

Of their purse,

                        And mam, and dad,

Are in an instant murdered from all they had been sold,

And still the country sits in silence,

And all that shout from media, are distractions

From the truth,

And the rabbit warrens sealed by bars

And barbed wire so no one there escapes,

And the flooding of the tides silence screams therein,

And the madness comes projected to those who sit in power,

For they’ve no-one else to blame now,

And they’ll take the deed of murder

To the grave they try escape,

And possession by the dead will shred

Their fames of fantasy, and in the country,

Will be heard the screaming of the loons.

 

 

Michael J Waite 9^th March 2011.