Wordsmith Requiem
Every time I close my eyes all I see are plagiarist thoughts from those who would steal my
right to feed myself and therefore be the matter of material eaten.
The books of belief and relief either failed me or I failed them. The television, reminder
of real world, this was not fantasy, this was nightmare.
The brushing off pondered into sanctions of entertainment for the lads. They too sought
shelter; in the house of faith and beer.
Each and own a seer of collapsing worlds; with roofs without pillars, with windows without
light, with a footy pitch without green grass.
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