A golden thread, poetry only can postpone,
but, not prevent the tapestry of life from
being torn to tatters.
However good is golden thread it may as
well be gilt tin twine, to stop our descent to
rags from riches.
Finally landed between two great seas, we
said we’ll rule ourselves, finally free of false
authority.
And so we did escape the clutch of ancient
wrongs, released the enslaved, but chased
our hosts into traps.
So like our old world masters, we became
warlords too, so easily are people misled
who only want to be fed, then read to sleep
from blocks of words that make warm sounds.
At your leisure, at your pleasure, is where
they want you to be while they rig the ropes
on this ship of state set to sail the seven seas
in the space torn open between you and me.
Dave Read