Christ a poet

The age I’m in turns my head about full circle
Sets me to tasks multiple in static time and frenetic pace
Its about clicking boxes and staring at light-space boards
Given to logical forms, algorithmic sense, geometric thought
Rational reductions, cardinal creeds, all modernists’ espoused rules
Its a world of straight science and relative morality
And the trees, though alive and standing, will sway to your eyes’ pleasure
As long as you speak not of a living, Almighty, right and firm
There, you’ll be suddenly silly, wanting decent intellect

The streets are a colourful pastiche of persons, posts and painful pangs
The avenues lined with streaming styles, neon lights, destitute lads
Sky lines, black ground, middle space claimed by in-between movements
All the fight to keep alive
All the fight to keep on fighting
All the flurry to be chanced to flaunt comfort
To be uninhibited by shame whose face…

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