The crumbling fabric

We weave this tangled web of life around us,
To cover ourselves in the cotton wool of securities,
To keep this wicked world from our doors,
Yet through cracks it seeps,
The sewage of life oozing through our vanities,
To smother us from within,
Suffocating our eyes from the light of humanities kindnesses, Making us forget what lies beyond our blinkered views,
The tunnel vision of the blinded,
And crippled by its tightening grip on our mortal soul,
Led from the light by our fears,
And bound by the nightmares of hellish futures,
That await our troubled spirits,
To devour us whole and lost inside,
Life’s comforts leave us floundering on wet sand, Waiting for the tides ebb to release us back,
In regurgitation from the whales belly once more,
To see sapphires sky,
And gold’s sun reflecting back from rolling waves.
But as we wait for rescue from this life,
Kept alive in our trinket box,
By the glow of love that emanates from within,
And in our darkest hours it lights our way,
And from flames flicker we warm our troubled mind,
And bask in its never-ending glow,
But fear rules that darkest corner within,
And in our minds eye we strive harder than we should to keep its embers smouldering,
And rapidly fan flames in our doubts nagging voice,
And our fears of taking a step back off the edge of this precipice paralyses our every move,
As we take every blow to our glass chins,
Every uppercut smacks closed our reasoning words,
Battered and bruised we face each new dawn with a sense of trepidation and apprehension,
And live dumb in a blinded world where money talks,
And the down trodden nod in the subjugation of the new world slavers, And to dream of our emancipation when sleep finally falls upon us, To a bright new world we were promised,
By those whom should have known better,
Yet wake to every grey cold dawn, The same as the day before,
No more strength to muster from inside this hollowed shell,
Of the men we once were,
Just the child we still are,
Cowering in front of the stern headmaster bending the bamboo of conformity,
Promising that come the next day we will do better than the best we just gave,
And giving more to him than our own life,
But was it not just yesterday we dreamed of the ten pence jamboree bag, And sugars rush,
With the constant burn of sun on sensitive flesh and smell of fresh cut grass,
The sting of antiseptic of fresh grazes cover by elastoplasts comforting caress,
Where cares beyond today were for others to handle,
Our only concern,
With jumpers for goal posts,
And footballs of leather stinging tender legs,
As if your mates were going to knock for you, Or pick you before the fat lad with the club foot and sticky plaster eye,
And in dreams of our past,
We rely to wake us from perpetual slumber,
And live to sell our souls once more,
As our life’s fabric now crumbles upon us.

African Blackwood and Banksia Nut tea light holder. More at Bespoke Woods Facebook page.


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