This kaleidoscope of randomness impresses more
than it damns - but it still outspans in a paddock of
sheep for the slaughter; that innocence expressed
by your charismatic dance to the wolves belies for
whom the Bell tolls, there is no ‘roll of honour’ and
in this age of compromised innocence, a certainty
suggests we’re to blame by wearing the hood of a
conscience bereaved over the face of our naivety
We’ve ploughed this field in a poverty of reason, it
won’t matter which sobriquets are planted here, or
whether we tend them with good grace - glistening
epithets are swearwords embracing those random
effects of the way we became disenchanted, tho it
won’t give a damn - no matter whose ego’s pay
© 30 September 2016, I. D. Carswell
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