Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Colours blend in a staccato of sound. Synaesthesia's all around.
Underground: a steepling slide into unconsciousness.
Mixing senses, genders, dreams, moulding the male, it seems,
In this hat-trick-hubris-chit-chat mode women don’t grow old.
Poets bleed, speak-in-tongues, fiddle with their fingers, long
To compose the lyrics of a song.
Pain is not in doubt, landscape tastes muddied-drear,
Oxen squeeze through the sun, like rain from clouds of fear.
Leading all  the lost people round and round and round.
Pleasing those in-the-know, punishing those with a frown.
Kindly equity unbound has the mettle to wear out the sea,
Like Samson in the synagogue, his hair down to his knees,
Sticks an iron in his soul, shows his mettle, then just leaves
The devil’s in the detail, the congregation’s on their knees