A choice between dictatorship or destitution,
was never really a choice,
just a cycle,
that catches hold of you,
unfolds until it covers the ground,
swelling into the sky,
swarming your soul.
You know there’s nothing left behind you,
no real peace on the path you follow,
but you walk anyway.
your constant companion,
that takes many forms on your journey,
looming threateningly as you leave,
on the faded face of the city that will always have your heart.
Death kneels beside the shattered segments of your heart,
as she keeps your sister for herself.
She keeps you awake at night,
asking what you could have done differently?
Who you could have saved?
Why couldn’t it be you instead?
Why did this have to happen to you?
You start to wonder,
if you can answer any of those questions,
and if death deserves the answers,
because whether she is sent by the men who stormed your serenity,
or the guards,
and their gas canisters,
that will meet you soon,
you start to feel like death would never be satisfied,
with any explanation.
(Death is possibly a regular reader of the Daily Mail…)
Death stalks you,
in the streets of Calais,
beckoning in the dark,
with bright red eyes,
under a truck,
telling you to take a risk,
and maybe you will,
only to be met with suspicion,
where sympathy should be,
because people who wear contact lenses,
made from tabloids,
cannot see the way that death trails you,
Or maybe you will join death,
and she will steal you for herself this time.
a collection of “God, what a tragedy, but don’t expect me to take any responsibility.”
from every alleged leader in the Palace of Westminster.
Maybe you won’t kneel beneath the roaring engine,
returning to your tent,
to contemplate the road,
and what waits,
across the way,
death edging closer to your face,