How can it be in this a civilised age

that we can fail not just those who try to change the world,

the young and full and ideas and sense beyond the crèche

of the Westminster island, but those who find

their way to emulation is to stand scowling at the passers by,

the feral

dogs  keeping guard, the accessory to modern sainthood

as they patrol the streets in black armour, the modern knights

of the uneven and tattered pavement.

 

How is it possible to see the divide between the same coin,

the stitch in the fabric of youthful society,

those that actively want to be, and those that no longer want to be

in just the matter of a simple bus journey home?

Is it as simple as economics or is there an element that is unseen, uncared for,

who just don’t give a damn because we failed them from the moment

they blinked into the sun and saw it explode, turn dark and hang

in space, dying slowly, the fuel long since spent.

 

I love to talk to those who still find the grace and humour,

the steel resolve to make their voice heard above the blazing rabble

and childish games that adults play, I am not afraid to listen to them.

It is though surely our duty to somehow talk to those that are left behind,

to get them away from the dead light and offer them an ear

before we find ourselves further embroiled in that affront to nature, the two

tiered-generation, those that try and attempt, those who see life

as the bit between the non-existence, who should the old be afraid of more,

those that fall from life or those that want to change it with youthful hope?

 

Ian D. Hall 2015