(yesterday is ancient history and tomorrow is light years away)
Images of imagining and imaginations,
Upon my mind's vista cast a stupor,
In my contemplations of a society,
Saturated with man's misdemeanours,
And reflective of his wilful malevolence.
Discontent like a rising timbre,
Echoes from the valley of discord,
As seemingly,by means of a Cartel,
The masses are held to bold ransom,
Who,like Lazarus,are crumb-eaters,
As louder and louder grows the rumble,
Decibel added to decibel,louder.....
Until phrenetic men
With volcanic-like devastation descend,
Making the city an abiding necropolis.
(at the edge of darkness there is a ray of light)
Men like ants walking the street,
Toting in tandem a myriad of grouses,
And feeling the wicked oppression,
Like the October of nineteen seventeen,
When the Czar of Russia fell.
History is only a repeating story,
But we possess short memories,
Shorter than the mini-skirts,
Worn on Frederick Street,
In Friday afternoon's stifling heat.
(frustration can be a long night but hope comes at dawn)
Images of imagining and imaginations,
Can't help the vagrant in Woodford Square,
His blank stare of negritude,
And his black body ravaged by hunger's death pangs.
Poor fella given up to die by his people,
Steeped in their own unfortunate dilemma-
A dilemma of their own self-destruction,
As aptly clothed in the vestments of greed,
They seek surely their own Bolshevik experience,
Aided by an impatient sanguinary crowd.
And with patience we view this phantasmagoria.
