So we pretend we don’t hear the man, he’s so
preoccupied with being right there’s no space
for us within his atmosphere, or oxygen either
most likely he’s converted it into armour-plated
pedantry of this monologue - which withstands
all attempts to intercede - or even seek reason
he glares as if we’re cause of his misanthropy -
altho’ he wont see it such & we wear contempt
for simply being there - like the un-adept ones
he’s characterised in his ranting - no-one is th’
Son of God he shrieks - we’re all children with
destinies not blessed in the bleachers of Eden
but there’s a compromise if you listen to - and
heed my preaching; but we cannot hear we all
whisper to each other - our words thus do not
clash with th’ same nothing he’s espoused for
all of us; but then we’re nowhere nearer being
where we were when it all came to pass…
© 15 December 2017, I. D. Carswell
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