Where do I place the cross,

the age old question of democracy

to which a flipped coin,

smooth and pointless upon either

side, will invariably come down

after spinning in the air

like a cold mechanical Catherine

Wheel, defiance in the face of all the odds

down on its side, the universe

goading you

into believing there is a third way.

 

Place the x, remember the feeling

when you believed in heart and soul

that it meant to change

your life

but then the feeling withered

and broke as you realise you had not

changed one god damn thing;

place the x on any election day

and see the trickle of sweat

run down your cheeks and collect

at your now glass chin, as you study yourself

in the mirror in the shopping

centre as your wonder what you

have condemned your fellow man,

the future too.

Place the x, put down the cross,

let someone else shoulder the virtue

but remember the right you misplace

by doing so, place the x, let the x

equal your worth.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016