Quarantine

 

 

            This is not freedom!

It is not the sum – the total of all

I feel inside,

It isn’t my wish, demand or collaborative

Appeal against conviction,

It is the drugging up of sanity

For the profanity that is my home.

 

It isn’t social housing but a cursing

Of my very own existence,

As belligerence of authority keeps

Persistence – targeting my very tortured woe;

    

     It is this wreck upon humanity

     Expressed by fields of rising concrete,

And sanctuary is but a leap away,

A leap away from tears as discrimination

Sets my heart dwindling by the incandescence

Of all polluted streetlights and street-life,

Be a life immersed in nothing more than pain. 

 

     It is my soul destroying exclamation

On a grey deluded horizon,

It is the cutting of my wrists

As Ghetto Birds and Z Cars

Patrol the hopes – the homeless

Keep for inspiration and escape,

Becomes nothing more than rape

Upon a Being condemned to hell,

 

     And I’m considering a death-dive

As thriving in the arcades of the affluent;

Is the amusement of those that serve a sentence -

For nothing more than Born!

 

     My twisted torso lies beneath,

Yet the concrete never changes colour

Despite the crimson attempt to paint it red,

And the coffins carried by as the neighbours

Salute upon the reaching of the sky,

And they and I both know;

How cheap they keep us poor!

 

Michael J Waite 25^th September 2011.