Falling On A Crutch

 

I feel like retreating from a world of Lunacy,

Feel like taking myself to the higher ground

To gain vantage over all the madness,

     But in doing so,

The sadness for what I’d see

What I would hear – sense and feel

Even from up there,

Would bare my soul

To a deluge of tears,

So many tears

The ground below would

Remain sodden for all

The years I walked,

And ran, and limped,

 

     I’ve tried to say it,

Tried to tell it so,

Just how it is upon

Derelict minds succumbed

To going nowhere in earnest,

For we fail, we get up and

We try again, handing crutches

For many to use while those

With a snigger and a glint,

     Would kick the crutch away

Still,

     We all have them,

We all get by concealing

The hurt we endure,

And that, will always be that

While reaching the pubs

And booze shops,

     While snorting the dust,

Injecting the brown or the white

And devouring food

We just never digest,

     We all find that special

Crutch that see’s us get by

And still,

     We remain blind of the

Many who starve,

The many whom thirst -

Who look to us to guide them by.

 

     There are those who

Hastily present each crutch we use,

There are those who kick them away,

     But the truth in it all,

Is man, would not need

The crutch he despairingly seeks

If he knew how to hold

With pride the neighbour

     Who falls,

We all, wouldn’t necessarily

Have want or have need

Of falsely presented supports

If man could have strength

In himself to extend

The friendship gone wide,

     Alas,

Man’s still injuring himself

And his kin,

Still maiming the innocent

And guilty alike,

     He’ll present

All the tonic

For all of your needs,

But he won’t help himself

Off the ground

     Where the stones

And the glass

Like pins and needles

Lay embedded upon

Everyone’s skin –

Be they black

Be they white,

 

     Falling on a crutch

Is everyone’s distaste,

Falling on a crutch is

The man never helped from the ground,

Falling yet yearning for help

Be each casualty

Shot through the heart

And soon,

     Even the stick made

Of plastic and metal,

Wooden and brass,

Will no longer support

Or keep humans erect

As falling,

     Be the world we devoured

For the hatred we are.

 

Michael J Waite 5^th March 2013.