I sit back and watch the
mill of the world
turn on its axis,
grinding life in its full circle,
crushed ears hear
bad old times and bad new times
just the same –
it’s fear
to blame.
On the back of the causal flow
we drift along, no need to row:
we either start to try
and make a stand,
or relax, drift through,
then curl up and die.
Man’s ultimate futility
makes him show no humility.
Those without are covered up
and slip into statistical haze:
blue days.
Those forced to flight
sleep a dark disturbed night,
the colour divide
compounds the plight
and onwards we rideinto the black night.
Filed under: Poetry | Tagged: Blue Days Black Nights, poem, Poetry, writing
