As a child, as a young man even,
He had this idea that life would be
Perfect, something which now seems
As strange and abstract a notion as
Any. Yet still he wakes every morning,
Expects the world to be in order, for
Everything to go as planned, with
Nothing to upset the balance.
A few steps away from his bed, he
Realises it is never so; wars and misery,
Politics and depression; all these burdens
He takes now, as he did then, on his
Narrowing shoulders, and falls into
The daily abyss of powerlessness and loss.
R 17/11/2023 13:57