Wandering this wasteland
weaponised with witty lines
lifted directly to remind us
April is the cruelest month
as if we didn't understand.
As if the death dates didn't loom each year
bank holiday conjunctions functioning
as klaxons calling forth old traumas.
No chance of resurrection.
And who would want it anyway?
Watch all your loved ones die or decay.
Quickly, slowly, pass the days
in dreadnoughts of anticipation.
The plunder of our collective memories
by the passing of its guardians
marks the changing of the guard,
the evolution of the yardstick of civilisation.
To stall is to suffer.
To stagnate is to suffocate.
For us, to survive has to suffice
for the briefest of blooms still bless us with their beauty
and it is pity I feel for those who don't fill their eyes.
