Almost, soon, there will be no stones to throw.
Everyone left to their own.
Of what is not owned.
Suffice to say,
most will be alone.
Scrapping down a cityscape.
No food for the land.
No place for an escape.
Beating back the promises with rotted sticks.
I wonder where the disillusioned…
Will find a fence.
A cushioned place in which to sit.
‘It’s absurd to believe that we might
As if its balanced in the end!’