Under a sky that glistens
shimmer thinning greys,
brittle reflections threaten,
loud as a spiv’s suit
inherently untrustworthy,
we are caught on a day without purpose,
it casts a leer
and we gladly buy its wares.
Padding out dismal hours
with half-truths and poor intentions,
our threadbare melancholia
rhythmically slaps our legs,
a cilice of woe
in this cack-handed purgatory
we seek enlightenment
but find only our shame
© Graham Sherwood 12/2015
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