IN WHOSE MIGHTY COMPANY.

Like some poor little street creature wandering along
Whose perimeter was left open and locked behind;
Walking a circuit only to return without noticing whilst
Collecting sticks and stony things and digging down for more.

Waiting for workmen to open up the road and free the good stuff,
All that textured clay and coal dust wanting to be shovelled;
That slippery old carbon urging a return to the surface,
Clinging to your wrists and fingers and places uneven.

Choking you slowly with a cough you’re not old enough to have,
And thrilling you just a little bit as you feel yourself fluttering.
Like some poor little sea urchin searching for water,
After finding the air and land less attractive than once thought.

An emptied box whose contents won’t fit back in;
Ungainly released, but as ever in these cases, imprisoned,
And thoroughly condemned to the longest sentence there is:
A life in prisms and glitter ball annual gatherings,

Without whose pursuit we would have autonomy by now,
But you’re still a fair way from having to worry too such yet.
So be on your way back home for instructions to read,
And hope that someone has opened the gate for you,

Because otherwise you’ll end up like your mother and father,
Whoever they are, in their hurriedly furnished contentment.
Ask them about the things beneath the surface of the world,
And the turning of the soil and the watering down of content,

And the untruths of affection given by people in old clothes,
And the correction of words that appear to hold no abuse,
And how the hell are you supposed to understand the rules
When they do not include a suitable use for youth.

Grow a little more in the warmth of the haze we radiate,
And correct every mistake you come upon, however simple,
Because maybe, just maybe, your raggedy arsed boredom
Will protect you from the fall out of our presence.