(Image, courtesy of S.O. Fasrus)
Does anyone recall the distant thrill of hope?
The cries of the city echo the spill of hope.
It is all too easy to slip from the tightrope;
another bottle dropped on the landfill of hope.
A politician lies, spews out the same old trope.
Only the most selfish can boast the skill of hope.
Comforts and futures clash in a kaleidoscope
full of hypocrisies — a crass windmill of hope.
Everybody dances when they run out of rope
so march with all the marchers up the hill of hope.
I thank the Lord that I was born a misanthrope —
humanity always adapts to kill off hope.
I have nothing new son, no other way to cope;
listen to the birdsong, pretend there's still some hope.
© John Newson
John has a wide variety of interests, ranging from architecture to zoology, and a corresponding inability to focus on any single task. He writes to achieve such focus.
