The lack of oil on the wheels, the lack

of care taken in keeping the saddle polished

and cleaned, dust free, pollution cleansed at least,

not harbouring any germs in which to scurry

around and make the frame collapse

are nothing compared to the sorrow

I feel when I hear the words of the fallen,

Megaphone not needed and it wouldn’t

solve the sobbing down the phone,

“He’s only interested in me for the drugs I can supply.”

 

My own chariot is just as battered and bruised

but as I sit taking in the October air,

not yet cold to cause the steam from the chips

to mingle and rise beyond any type of redemption,

I can’t help but listen

I cannot help but feel life being destroyed,

I cannot help but want to help, to see

why the fallen angel fell so far,

why she descended to the point of crater impacted smithereens

and just how much further this poor wretch could burrow

into the hole she had created…

 

She was gone, perhaps for good, we are all

after all beyond redemption.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.