That frustration is easier explained - like scent
of custom-made doom invading, the girdling of
pure powerlessness; its Hell on wheels without
chrome trimmings or an indolent exhaust-note,
that singular protest-vote we’ve seen as a joke;
when things ran our way there was no need to
be different, yet here we’re isolated, fettered in
unmatched shoes so far into the coral penury
& why’s it me in ‘crossed hair’ quirks of what’s
nonsensical probability, and what are the odds
it is framed by all those insanely ‘random’ acts
of vengeance perchance revisited because the
plague of my invulnerability’s dissipated; or am
I facing the vagaries of doing their penance
© 15 January 2015, I. D. Carswell
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