The Duality of Reality

 

I’d like to write of drifting clouds of cotton white,

And wispy paths with patterns lightly

Dancing through,

The smiling beauty of my view.

 

But what I see are sodden rags of misery

With moisture stank that sickens me

For industrial gain,

And nature weeps with acid rain.

 

I wish to weave among the trees of mottled leaves

When nuts are snatched by furry thieves,

And breezes moan,

The scented tales of time and tone.

 

But what I find upon the soil now left behind

Are stubby stumps of man’s design,

That silent jut,

Beyond the need for chainsaw’s cut.

 

I crave the flight of busy bee through hazy light

Above the bobbing bobbled tails of white

That signal sweetly,

Where bunnys play discreetly.

 

But though I try, I hear nought but empty sky

As birds and bees both surely die.

The rabbits, still,

With myxo eyes that sourly fill.

 

I want to swim where crisp white breakers crumble in

To rinse the earth and fix my grin,

And fresh breezes play,

To smooth the wrinkles of the beach away.

 

But I don’t dare to enter in the water there.

A heavy smell that clings to cloying air

Tells tales of sewage seep,

To wash towards my fleeing feet.

 

I would love to hold her hand and stroll upon the soft warm sand

With golden sun that bathes the land.

Her laughter dancing,

With smitten eyes romancing.

 

But who is she who vomits now disgustingly

And cries her drunken tears at me.

A broken shell;

All that’s left from a childhood hell.

                     –      –      –     –     –

So to those who girn for giddy lines

To neatly close both verse and farce,

Bend thy knees, purse thy lips,

And plant thy kiss upon my arse.

A.D.