MJD, poem: Cycle

A feeling pushed, neither here nor there.
Waiting for clarity, like the twinkled bay.
Pondering the classes; hidden begrudge.
A pint of black and a warm fire; calming the senses.

You’re out, you’re in.

Flowing cycle down the still gleaming canal.
Watching ghosts.
Serenity is a goal for the god’s. Unattainable, working class; trouble is life, and life is trouble.

Pick up your melancholy. Stuff it tightly away. Bring it out when only necessary, to avoid total dismay. Strong chest, shoulders back. Bare it . . . And bare it so.

Once your seed is sewn. A legacy is born worth writing; write it good – Against the head of Despair. No story will be told, remembered, or heard.
With grip so feeble.