Back to Bed

Thirteen degrees outside and freezing rain.
It's seven-thirty, dark, and all the awful
Headlines have been read. Power feeds
On weakness. Wealth inflates. It gains
From poverty, and life, mine anyway, is
Shackled to an apparatus which distills
All of the joy away. The concentrated
Bitter dregs, the pain and head-hung
Hopelessness, remain, but cannot
Be consumed. It seems absurd to stay
Awake to face the frozen light.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2018-01-11 at 14:46

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