dreams of dystopia

helpless and fragile

the shadows in my dreams,

and the people in my home,

their bodies – small and weak;

the captors of light

at large in the streets;

we rot in a catacomb,

nasty, derelict and meek.



they cage free souls

where there once was a park

bind them in locks

and bellow and hark;

there used to arrive

a singing skylark

and bright eyed girls in frocks;

the frocks now dark.



it has never been hard

to raise my ire,

when a dimwit casts

lousy verdicts in high towers;

but of jibes and slurs

I never quite tire,

it fills the void that lasts

for hours upon hours.



a pauper’s share

has never been much

but more it has been

than my paltry lot;

my twelve year eye

has never seen much

but more it has seen

than I care or ought.