To think that I have given
so very much for so little,
and to realise that all this
is a dreamer’s pile of dust,
spread out as dross across
the fields of hope where
others have lusted after
this pernicious awful lie.

To think that I have turned
my gaze to all that does not
matter in the end and away
from the quiet love that really
was my hope and not this
fantasy that is a void where
only the cold silence exists.

To know that I have sold my
soul for dust and the flowers
coloured cannot grow there
in this Wasteland ancient and new
that is a place of bones covered,
poisoned and inert, in this other
hell cold without the burning fire.

 

11/10/2024