A tear could crack this laboured face,
of gentle whispers, breath,
of hours and seconds, months and days,
few left enough to thieve.  

To steal ourselfs less others do,
committed to our days.  
A curious thing for those that say,
that crime it never pays.

A heart “once found” shall look to the sky
or in tired shame, they slowly fall.
Do not live of grey, if not your way,
for chains not seen , are the heaviest of all.

Would you think that I would wish for pain?
I am but a murmur, like that of a whale of the deep.
Watched I have, and felt your blows,  
you would think me a gift, that is yours alone to keep.

Grown you have, and this I've watched,
with pride, and sometimes shame of pain.
My heart is yours,  yet you can cut and gouge,
and you would wonder of the rain?

I have seen your wonders, your beauty, love.
Of my brothers I would present with pride.
Grown you have and indeed come of ages!
Would you have me sit silently, forlorn reside.

For I am not yours alone to keep, we must be earnt!
Would you think that I would wish for pain?
Take my hand once more, for I long to adore.
Be not children ignorant and vain.

No you are, parading it on the air!
Degenerate,  gladiatorial,
whys it here? Where did it come from? Entertainment.

Like a vampire that feeds on despair.

Throw down the weapons of choice, the **** and the beer,
minimal training provides the correct tempo of fear.

For these battles! That pleasure the idol!
Who are just glad the battle is beyond their cares.
Conceited in judgement,and taking pleasure, in a life that’s worse than  theirs!

Why is it here? where did it come from?
This perverse and sickening game.

Ask a television controller and they’ll all reply.
This is what the people want!

Some Romans said the same?

Don’t worry it’ll be OK,      
  it was always going to be,    
   one way or another it’ll be fine,      
   you just wait and see.        

   Words we can crave, yet never heard,      
  in our lives we sometimes need,    
    though none can know for you manage,      
        but at the end of the day, still read. x

The problem with a temperature wash, even mild,
is how easily the glass begins to mist.
Cramped as you are in your sloppy steamy hell,
between each cycle a rub you cant resist.

To see who sees, or if anyone sees at all,
through the stinging suds, your bloodshot eyes can only wince.
For when you choose to hide, and in such a space reside,
  unseen you should expect at least a rinse!



Plain sight you thought! While the drum begins to fill,
as your shiny home now turns to bubbles thick.
You crawled in as you do, and with the door just pulled it to,
what you didn’t expect was whites and a heavy click!

You pathetically stare at the cupboards from your hell,
all the choices from the time that you were biding.
And as the drum begins to turn, its only then you finally learn,
to not expect that much, when you’ve become this good at hiding.

I saw you once and this you know,
a feral face of grey,  
for in shadows dark you quietly stood,
to avoid the light of day.

Your influence “despised “serves best as daylight fades,
your strength it grows upon each hour, for your hour,
will increase with depths of shade.

Although “fleeting” our eyes met once!
A knowing smile adorned your face,
to see you as I could, to catch you if I would!
No footsteps I could follow if choose to chase.

A feral face of grey, beware this ghastly gaze!
bored in goodness, a shadow dweller,
awaits “lack”of reason,
for this face, to smugly raise.

I lay bound like Gulliver,
with stakes of diplomacy,
and ropes of weakness,
yet defiant!  

I tense my body,
to feel the extent to which I'm held!
But not too much, less something breaks,
compliant!

These tiny multitudes of things,
that constantly attack my senses,
  have made me a bureaucratic “giant “
that must be brought to heal.

That’s why I am staked down,
all bar one arm of course!
For how else could I employ,
the stake and rope I feel?