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I walked the precipice of beauty
Above a motion bold and ‘grand’
That walked a million circles
Upon once long discovered land.
Where weakness was an honour
To be given to the strong
And truth was a trigger word
Besmirched in marching song.
One man’s trash was treasure
And all the treasure trash
Tossed out with every measure
Of a new generation brash.
Too tired of old men talking
They cut the old men down
With smirks and smears and knowing leers
Packaged in a thorny crown.
I had to stand in pointless queues
And smile at paper bags
‘Artistic’ were the words they used
Describing each damp rag
That sat upon the fire of growth –
Smoke signals in my wind
To blow the futile is the oath
Of all in daylight dimmed.
They smashed the windows of the cars
That paid to use my street
Those people waiting quietly
They were the ones they beat
For saying ‘let us hear a voice
And perhaps learn to disagree’ –
This culture’s god, her name is ‘Choice’
So all must choose not to see.
I walked the precipice of beauty
Above the slippery slope
They stood below and propositioned
Me to hang upon their rope
These safe spaces held their hands
And gave the cutting knife
Their only way to meet demands
Was to love an ugly life.
Was to love an ugly life.
S.K. Downes
