Who is now reading this?

May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.

As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.

Tidal waves of the titanium sea
threaten but never bring the disaster.
They are great statues stuck on the horizon:
mighty monuments of atrocity.
One day I will set out to see their glory.
I’ll walk years upon this old cold sea,
I’ll run if my feet and heart are able,
I’ll trek till my days end if I need to,
and when I finally get there,
I hope the horizon comes crashing down on me.  

But time as it take takes my passion too.
I watch my skin thin, and my hairs all grey.
Decay of the body and soul, but never mind,
as the horizon torments me as she shines.
Maybe when I pass I’ll be another
atrocity stuck on that old horizon,
beckoning fool hearted adventurers
to discover the truth of these waves.
We’ll threaten but never bring the disaster.
We’ll tempt, We’ll deceive, We’ll do nothing.

We'll watch them stumble, fall and give up.
And as each one does each one becomes stuck.  
Disappointment is the air with which they last breathe.  
A metallic taste is on the tongue of the next youngster to leave.

The crowd howls as Simon Cowell
is shaved by old Philip Schofield.
But at the end of the act it’s thumbs down,
and so of course it’s off with their sad heads.  

Hunt for another missing child.
The family is underwhelmed by turnout.
Everyone sits comfortably on couches,
and sheds the occasional wee tear.  

Man shaves in the morning
and has coffee then back to bed.
Everyone sits on the edge of their seats.
The reviews speak of the miracle.

The words I speak are scared of my tongue.
They feel deceived, caught, strung.
They have meaning, rooted as an elderly tree.
But they cannot control their speaker,
and such a sickly, twisted speaker as me.

Now this is the saddest sight to see:
a man lying face down and sobbing
into the earth, and the earth sobbing too,
as the sky bursts open and weeps along
with them.

And yet here I stand, looking on dry eyed.

My baby's got a whispering hat.
It tells her grand tales, and sings her to sleep.  
My baby’s got a whispering hat.
She listens to every word of that creep

She goes out for a run, and he goes with her.
She say’s it's to save her ears from the cold.
She rejects anything I try and give her,
cause that whispering hat has taken his hold.  

In our marital bed I hear them laugh;
The sounds mingle like blood in a flea.
His breaths in her ear, gets her high with the gas,
And they don’t care that I can hear and see.  

I hear her in the throws of deep passion;
and so I burst down the door in a rage.  
“ You are mine. All of you! Not just a ration!”
Then take of her hat, and close her cage.

I ask my baby’s whispering hat.
But he will not say a ******* word.
So I burn my baby’s whispering hat.
“ That’s it. I’m done.”  
            The last words from her I heard.

A thousand angry fingers are fighting.
"I’m right! Im right! There’s wrong in your writing.”
There’s a war of opinion, it's a slaughter of facts,  
as fearful dominions blame who they can for the acts
of hate that they scrape across our tired eyes;
and as we try and decipher truth from the lies.
So soon people point, push, drag and despise
anyone they believe to be the devil in disguise.  
“ Hang them, hit them, beat them down.
Don’t let another one of ‘those' in my good town”.  

I tried to tie my own tongue and keep quiet.
But my fingers felt need to fight in this riot.
Though I am not seeking a thumb from anyone,
I was beginning to fear I was a disloyal son;
for our mother is weeping for every child.
Whether radical, righteous, anxious or mild.  
She’s worried this war, like a fire in the wild,
won’t stop until all is consumed but the ash that is piled.
“ Stop this! Stop this! My dear children!
  Life is so much more than the motives of men"

And I watch this war from a cafe in Glasgow;
outside enjoying coffee, crisps and tobacco.
The smoke swirls my head into a strange sense of comfort,
as before my eyes I watch my own world distort.  
Where political posts attempt to equal social justice.
Where blood, bodies and bombings add to our numbness.
Where others opinions slowly shape and become us.
Where poets lack rhyme, guidance or substance.
Where In friends we see foes, and in fellow citizens: dangers.
Where we speak with our fingers, and to ourselves become strangers.