Their Penance

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