Delusions of Grandeur
and that’s where we start;
there’s no shortcut to feeling bemused.
The apparent demise
of history, revised
to suit the men with the ropes in their hands.
Falling back in a state
of dishevelled distaste:
“I’m a lioness when I want to be, dammit!”
The grass cuts at our weights
to cast us away, into haste,
of our dreams, the clock ticks silently here.
Puff out your chest,
square up to the rest
of these poked and prodded masters of nature.
Run for the swamp,
sink with a sodden thump
and be torn to a million pieces.