Complain to whom (or is it ‘who’, you
might digress) to get its cast iron grip
beset with angst release its feral hold;
and where does one appeal for peace
from boldly broken promises
Its rash of nervous energy repressed
retreats beyond a point where sense
conspires in views of wrong disjointed
too obscurely to be set to rights – and
all for crudely wooed imbalances
Seeking succour from a Bank of vogue
intransigence will find you’re stranded
in a cell-like dream with less restraint
than walls of clay – although in bricks
displayed as bogus faith
Answers blink belatedly, a wraith-like
figurine who signals in a semaphore
too simply read; behold you’re author
of your subtle fate alone it says –
best let it rest in peace...
© 25 June 2012, I. D. Carswell
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