We swim in broadband dreams and stream along the microwaves and no-one save the sentinel,
who stands alone,outside the gates of hell can see that we are standing on the edge
of cliffs so high
the sky is numbed as we are numbered one by one
fall off the ledge,
then we are gone.
Jamming,
gamma rays like gattling guns that break through chests,where hearts that raced and ran and man,
no longer plans to break the stars or wake cathedrals,begging Jupiter or Mars to stamp upon,destroy
for all is gone where suns would go and solar winds would blow into the storm and morning never comes.

I hear the boys that beat the drums,more guns that speak and then destroy, the boys a part of marching bands that occupy these foreign lands and,
the sands beneath my feet were once a mountain range
how strange that we as men would fumble yet mountains though eternal crumble and yet it’s true.
The sand is soft and trickles through my hands.

I have stood outside the railway stations patiently, and I have waited for the morning train and trained myself not to despair
of arriving where I would desire to be
and I wait patiently
as mountains fall around me ,
as cities rise,
more than skies are numbed as beggars bum from fellow men a cigarette and yet,familiar as this is and always seems to be
It’s just another streaming broadband dream to me,
the train will come
the sun will rise
or we as man will not survive
and no reward for this,no kiss of death for thousand dollar lives thatstrive and will, or will as will, will only be the will that will survive.
I take five
survey
lay my head
play dead
and cry.

© John Smallshaw all rights reserved

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