A Labyrinth of distorting mirrors

The man at the corner shop used to wave to us as we cycled to school,
kind old man, with flower garden generosity.
His smile reminded me of roses,
that old man was a picture postcard trophy of 1959.
Those were the days when ancestralled essences moved among us like a gentle wind on a summer’s day.
There were families that lived loved and died in a, ‘Darling buds of May’ ideal landscape. But there also was a Serpent Schizophrenia that climbed around England’s walls, the Roulette wheel of life where pity was distilled.

And now I see people, in a slumber land-walking crowd, all their eyes are ice, not thinking for themselves anymore, content to let the politician piggy back them to a tortured hope. A Labyrinth of distorting mirrors mocks my very existence, and in silence and rage I shiver inside a polling booth in 2017.

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