Ism
Solace in solitude is not solace,
Yet solitude drapes around me as fog.
It backs up against the yellowing pale of democracy,
falling to cries of ism.
Ism builds the bridge
but passes nothing across.
Ism makes us all equally nothing.
It fills no gaps.
It eases no pain.
Everyone has so many rights, that no one has any.
Enough postulations.
Enough whining in the vernacular of drag abouts.
Enough hoping and cursing for the good old day, lost forever.
Infused in false hope and pseudo dreams
lying ever on the edge of tomorrow,
Swirling mists of anxiety
float on the tongue of every asker,
of every question.
who, what, where, when, why?
Burying answers in a vault of hypocrisy,
those who answer preening their social feathers
puffed in pompous indignation
of politically correct double talk.
Words are expounded, hearts are lifted. You hear trumpets sound,
only the small child utters, “What did he say”.
And a child shall lead them.
“What did he say?”
And they all ask “What did he say”?
he dares not say it again.
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free.
Not: your poor tired huddled masses, yearning for all that is free.
© 16 Dec 2010 For Gareth's "inspirational"contest
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