Life is

Life is

The clicks in your spine

The heavy chest at night

It is the hate

The hissing breath

At those who

Discarded you

As you threw away

Their disregard

It is those who are

Almost close

Showing their favour

In small jokes

In their hidden for this time

“Ironic” appreciations

In our rage

Our desperation and despair

We are alive

For we cannot crack the marrow

Cannot swear or forswear fealty and love

In broken ages of stillborn promises

Where the sick, slicked, dyed

Painted faces and bought men holding sway

Only rage

Only half heard songs worth singing

And the burning in a cold earth

Is anything, alone worth hearing

In the drops of sweat shed

And cold deeds given any memory.

Spend

Your time, your blinks

Private breaths, ideas and ideals

Upon those dreams

Sculpted from the

Ash and poisoned clay

Of this age

Build your works

Whether they come

Or laugh, or decline to see

For that heart of flame

That pool of thought

Is everything made

Far worse

Is the living death of those who sleep.

By J.W.H. Hobbs.