The Time of They

Escaped and using only one hand for balance

I step out the door into the freezing slipstream

Of your fenced-in repertoire of guilt and edged

With fire I open the door again to sow and slowdown

The rate of chance that someone would recognise

That I am not the sure-footed one but the one with the cut-off

Trousers who gives a lot but not anymore

Since it is about the way I see and not the way

I be.  I be in the end but a one and a two

But the way of the world is a number is not

The one who goes to see the redline form at the top

Of the post.  It forms but does not get seen and so

It is about to blow.  It is about to blow all to

Smithereens.  Wither you shall understand this

Depends on your vacant expression of pain,

Not expansionism but compression of ideals

Into one.  Use of it makes all understand that

It is about the one who wins and not the one who loses

Since this is the time of they and not us.

Copyright B E Saunders 2016

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