We feel ourselves rogue and peasant slaves -
In that is no disgust.
Collectively yet to have been stripped of
Our formalities, plunged into fiction, devoid of normality -
An undiscovered country, if you must.

We doze cosy in dreams of passion
Where space and silence nudges pens; they bleed.
Though liquidity stiffens
Flair and genius warm the air
Assuming a pleasing shape, indeed.

We weep under a broken voice
When seas of trouble rise to strike us down.
Remorseless - how can it pause to pick and choose?
Treacherous - anxiety bedevils our news
But temporary, false is its crown.

When we think or moan, twiddle thumbs or disengage,
There is nothing, not even tears, that dares to drown our stage.