The Duality of Reality
I’d like to write of drifting clouds of cotton white,
And wispy paths with patterns lightly
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.