BREAKERS YARD.

We play all the maker’s games,
And the ones who remain aimless
Know all the maker’s names,
Whilst the sure face that is stainless
Has everything to gain.

And the ministry recites perfect
Renditions from its leather bound,
As all the gathered wrecks
Repeat the endless sound,
And never once suspect,

That there are frequent flights of fancy,
With secret counterbalances,
Evading grey day dancers
And their subjective fantasies,
Compelling further sanctions.

Best anoint your own conceptions,
And take off for an inland shore
To perform your predilections
Without them mounting more
Inquisitive inspections.

No phone to ring, or letter box,
Or digital reception line;
Left unadorned and orthodox
With time
But not its clocks.