I plant my foot,
I plant my foot,
Never is it still
Long enough to take root.
The echo of it’s fall
Follows in my wake
Through the long nights
Hollowed into valleys
Where the unwary
Falter
Before tall gates
Locked with deadbolts
That never were alive
But are guardians of the damned.
If you believe
In Justice
Whatever that might mean
In a world of avarice
Where democracy is
Subservient to the wealthy
With more power than
Common sense.
And young boys,
Farmers lads
Those who pull the plough,
Till the land,
Tend the flocks
Smelt the ore
Build the fire
Sanctify the damned
Are as lonely soldiers
Mired in the memory
Of combat,
The best of us
Those who truly gave,
Lying in wait
Born to be forlorn,
Practised in fealty
To oleaginous oligarchs
And robber barons
The plunderers and thieves,
Poor souls
With matchwood handcarts
Wait before the gates
For what they will
Never receive.
I see no resurrection
Or hope of a reprieve.
As my foot always falls
In silence
Until it hits the ground
And the echo
Of its falling
Is all I hear
Lost in the darkness, I have found.