Rant
Hindsight is a curse, heaping its miserable
I-told-you-so crumbs onto the empty platter:
The dry leftovers of an apocryphal life –
An inedible and an immoveable feast,
Beyond the cutlery of invective and prayer.
And what we now know?
The leg irons
Of a slaver’s ship that rub raw at the present;
The back-breaking day after day taking us nowhere
But to the future, with its inevitable failure -
A foresight so cheap it beggars belief.
And what god is this to listen to
Such puling disaffection? Cloth-eared
And cloth-capped, relentlessly pushing his bike
Up the hill so we can freewheel it back
Down into the valley of shadows, jeering.
What a broken toy it is to toy with us so:
The not knowing, then knowing; and how
You have to pass it on, this hand-me down
Life, this second-hand go! It’s all torn
And holed!
Yet, it will smother your beauty.
Forgive me,
forgive me,
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