Will this be his tomb?
Of objects which our outer nature rejects
Is the love which begs us to question why?
They moved the goal posts
And said after
“It’s a fair strike,”
Yet I knew better
When the wind blows a new tune
Not yet bereft of sense
I cling to my life-raft
Glide on wisdom’s blinding shaft
Now integrated in my techno-bubble
I knew where you were coming from I guess it’s time
To drop the bomb
“Ah’m’a geddon out a’ here!.”
“Move-a-long get-a-long go, move, shift!”
Be swift, traveller of night’s darkest steeds
Hasten ye to the place of many reeds
And plant the seeds
It is your food
To work the earth
To till the turf
That was blackened by good age, good age
The wisdom of the sage.
To be insured against every contingency of fate
A discourse where all the answers come too late
Their leavened bread was eating you whole
From out of Time’s mists the Church bells toll.
(C) 1996 Christopher Julian Hudson