Culture, shock

Culture, shock

Spilling out of the tender trough
that anxiety feeds from,
your fleshed-out fantasy
perforated lives.
A craving was hidden,
mushroomed under musty cover -
the dirty underbelly
of yesterday's smiles,
all that gave hope
to keep up the farce,
to never ask who -
who were you really?
The truth will not do.
An enigma, a lie,
spoon-fed like porridge
to the so-called True
Until leanness of soul
could stomach no more.
Then out of the topsoil,
ducking the cross-fire,
squinting like mice,
they rise, two by three;
by thousands; in droves;
A legion cast out, made free.
Is there bread enough for me?
Preyed on by confusion,
trounced by bitterness -
relief held at bay.
Liberated, but malnourished,
alive and not kicking.
Sowing their tears
until harvest's moon.
Then sheaves will be reaped
and old wounds healed.
Yes, your fate is sealed.
Ugly and lecherous
you will be revealed.
Upbraided for falseness,
an ironic justice,
for twisting those words.
But joy will come
life will come
all will be whole
and nothing you do from your hole
will ever ensnare us again.
Our dying has come to an end.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006