A satire: of sorts

As I force myself toward pleasure,
and I love this November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
through the tunnels,
over the wind-swept bridges,
through the sedentary, school-less
villages of the old and unwise
Into the land of my enemies
where hostile witnesses abound
skilled at shaking fists, digging up dirt
spitting and being contemptible;
wizened faces study bank statements
share certificates, land deeds, untaxed cash,
financial entitlements of all manner and conditions
whilst drooling over the babies of the young,
in blatantly false displays of camaraderie
whilst whistling Deutschlandlied .

◄ Día de Muertos

Vanishing point ►

Comments

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Philipos

Mon 6th Apr 2020 22:24

A very interesting poem John. Enjoyed.

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