45*21

we walk into the cold cold woods
these wheels of industrial thinking
what will we come up with next?
sort of thinking. has this always existed?
my guess is no, and in Somalia
no rules dictate or determine
the proverbial rug is pulled from under
the velvet lamp, red and strange
light barely coming through
a waistcoat hanging in a coat hutch
have your man remove the brush
Is it because I'm English?
The questions surround my mind
and never do they get footing
guilt leaves you empty
fear fills the void
they are twin sisters on the bank of a river
one tunes her lyre
the other makes the fire
the goal is not to win but to survive
with a myriad of ideas fomenting lie