Night sweats.

Slipping in and out of discussing a conclusion with himself

Sitting by the waters edge cursing loudly those who condemn

He had a confession to make, but where to find a confidant?

Dead wood was what he referred to himself as

Nothing to smile about, deadpan that was his nickname

It followed him along the road of little hope

How was he to realise his dream

 

When he had not a dream to realise

He continued his search for assistance

Just continued walking down blind alleys

Each day the same ritual

Fix for breakfast, fix for lunch, fix for dinner

He recognised the meaning of all three

But lived on scraps

They were of his age, mid twenties

Grey figures of ageing men

Living the seasons in winter storms.

(c) Chris Black 2017.

News

February 2017 “Critical thinking without hope is cynicism. Hope without critical thinking is naïveté” Critical Bastards Magazine invites writers and artists to critically respond to the idea of hop…

Source: News