Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry, Politics


His hand stills,
The loss of words complete,
Language gone, and feeling.
In this void, everything is silent,
And he drifts away into the
Darkness of space where
All is permanent.

R, 15/01/2023 18:29

Democracy never was anything
But an illusion created by
Rulers to make the masses
Compliant; in churches, in fora,
In town and city squares, in
The armies used to inflict war
On those who dared dream
Of free will and self-determination.
Tyranny always was permanent.

R, 15/01/2023 18:31

Today’s #MastoPrompt was #permanent. Took me an age to get something down on paper. Went to bed too late. Got up too late, feeling awful. At some point in the night, one of my ear-rings (a large silver sleeper) decided to hook itself into the copper bracelet on my right wrist, and I woke myself up ripping the ear-ring out of my ear when I moved my arm. Not a painless experience at 4 a.m. or whenever it was.

Days trudge. So dark was my mood, I forced myself to go for a 1-hour fast walk across the fields on the Northern outskirts here, and then back through suburban streets full of litter and roadworks and too much noise, and too little change.

There are pluses – one of the pins in the wristband of my stopwatch broke last week, and I’ve been carrying it about in my pocket instead of wearing it. I ordered a whole box of spare pins, and they’d arrived when I got back from my walk (along with the refillable pod for our coffee machine, so I had a lovely smooth espresso using that first), and I have surprised myself by managing to fix said wristband. Useful the pins came with a clever tool with which you can push down the spring-loaded pin ends rather than using your finger nails.

Even the darkest days have some sort of light, apparently.

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