Silence held firm in the rising tides of chaos,
on this last day - Humanity but a theory
scribbled across a burning horizon, incomplete,
smothered in confusion - Darkness reigned.

Enveloping the last evening, amidst the austerity,
of light. Here sat Humanity, no flash to savor,
the ruination of thoughts - belief in hope,
the last resort of the soulfully challenged.

An' so here rests the Poet, abundant with wordy,
resource, in times so pensive, we dream,
we breath, we spin a comforting web - helpless,
As the last minutes tick softly, calming the flame.

As the last minutes of the last evening soak into this last day.

The importance of new life so easily forgotten,
Common sense, family, friends hurriedly lost,
Never did he offer simple respect they deserved,

“…how conceited it was to think of just me,
This angel, now gone, I just..failed to swerve,
Too late, teasing my ego with stolen youth,
Selfish pleasure – my starter, sickly dessert,
My main course, served cold an’ breathless,
This image, this perfect life, this Innocent,
Head bowed, my remorse is too little, too late,
My daughter alone, tired of waiting, asleep,
A kind, faultless wife – unaware of the horror,
Hand-cuffed an’ charged with manslaughter,
My eyes forever tearful, I now see in my mind,
The grief of the mother in this shameful theft,
Haunting me through the past and the future,
The darkness I have left, the unknown space,
I am so sorry, I was drunk and driving too fast,
Numb in what I am for the childish careless fun,
I am a father now to have realised - I have taken,
I will never forget, for she will never be gone,
That I, John Cassidy, have caused this death…”

The remorseless will always be quiet, alone,
To their pain, their old acquaintance until an end,
Love lost, hurt forever loaned from the senseless.

Am why be come
I does me back
Writing my or? to
****? mind is haunt
Or chatter this and
Thinking so? All teach
Out can my me
Loud? it past why?

Such a pity it is to see,
With one’s own eye to such degree,
Alone she walks – baby asleep,
With tired eyes of those who weep,
The nights and days of simple youth,
To ‘Single Mum’ from ‘Really Cute’,
Has taken all she used to know,
All pale from an innocence glow,

She looks ahead with hopeful gaze,
“A gorgeous child” a person says,
She smiles and asks the lady ‘How are…? ’,
The baby cries – ‘It doesn’t matter…’
‘Don’t mind him he’s always like this’
“The crying of babies I won’t miss”,
The woman states; and walks away,
The girl she wishes that she would stay,

She scowls ‘Why’d you ruin it for me? ’
‘All is wanted is some company’
It’s up and down the path for now,
Straight toward the familiar town,
Where people stare and pass remark,
And wonder where their cars can park,
Pushing on, head up, turns to look,
Not too long unless she’ll be stuck,

Facing sniffs from unwanted nose,
Comments on “babies matching clothes”,
Running through her mind as she walks,
Adopted mothers with their spiteful talks,
“You must do this and not do that”
“You must work off, girl, all this fat! ”
Life’s hard enough without ‘advice’,
‘You do that as I’ve made my choice’

Finally past - into the store,
Not to listen to anymore,
“Concentrate girl! ” ‘Oh! What to buy? ’
Fumble for change, tear in her eye,
Pizza frozen and baby food,
Back home, for now, in a worse mood,
‘Lonely I may be – not like them,
I have this child – a costly gem’.

This is time – a mans enemy
Stalking like silence
There is woman – a mans answer
Looking for patience
There is nothing – a mans excuse
Talking of grievance
This is time – a mans enemy
A misery indeed.

It's the centenary of the proclamation – we shall lift our glasses,
not to Guinness or to Arthur Diageo's dream of the Emerald Isle,
distracted, appeased, quelled an' ****** on the tainted black stuff,  
designed to keep us inferior, pig-carriers - at arms with ourselves,
but of Irish craft, guile an' the rising of Irish spirits, the creation,
of a dream long suffered for, long wished for, celebrated in private
for shame of the austere reflection of a country and its people lost,
We shall lift our glasses to the beginning of todays sour ending,
A'sure twas' a good Easter that year.

Hand shakes warm, clean an' orchestrated with restrained sincerity,
A Kingdom reborn, a Republic divided by the maths of peace-makers,
The brave sacrificed for the sneering survival of these eels of politics,
Landowners who owned more than just land - the people's will,
Testament to this abortion of values, morals, history and desire,
is the wholesale pawning of the Irish coast – to support our captors,
the constant glance over our shoulders with panic in our quiet eyes,
as the money men, smug with irresponsibility laugh safely inside,
A'sure twas' a good Take that year.

People are essentially cowards.
Push them to their apathetic limits,
Through the ‘meh’ an’ sighs,
To the over-exaggerations,
Do it not for dramatic effect,
Polite nods, scattered sarcasm,
False recognition, Luke warm,
Greetings!

Trust me, Believe in me,
I could be…

These internalisations of thought,
Of what, whit, all I have,
Are without sponsored hope,
As we are exposed to the unknown,
Take it easy on the way down,
To the ladder’s first step,
You’ll bow to the friend,
Who at first you skipped.