The *** hums a feral anthem
As the light at my window dies.
A candle stagnates on the sill,
The autumn wind cries.

A jackdaw’s calls
Ring out the rusted shells of Tractors.
The grey fog, engulfing, perished to
Cloud.

As shadows, linger
In the twilight.

Birthed from earth-water
Gathered with little hands,
We laboured in the ice-dark dawn
To mould our image of a man,

Modeling our fathers’ clothes.

Lenses, looking out:

At the silent body,
Jostling.

The spiritual hour:
The clock,
Static, stagnant,
Glowers.

When young and stirring from his bed,
Before hopes and days so bright,
He weary lifts a cheek of youth,
And takes to teenage flight.

And when returned in the half of morn,
To shades of amber light,
He scans a home so blankly left:

His prison cell by night.

I was born on a belt
In the factory of man,
Rolled into a home,
Labeled and stamped.

My life was made honest
By ink on a page,
And my future controlled
By a system of wage.

My whole life thus far,
Two decades of lame,
Incompetent bureaucratic,
Institutional reign

Has seen us shuffled down
The educational lane,
Made unified products;
For unified gain.