Poetry: Dots On A Timeline

A thousand revolts stuck in history
know and unknown alike.
Blood spilt to avoid our own injury,
To keep our minds childlike.

I could be a sweet sparrow
traverse the endless blue,
never have I felt the cloud’s arrows,
seen an owl or thanked a horseshoe.

Instead I’ll wander through an endless wood,
in search of past Gods, beasts and men,
feel guilt in not accepting my freedom
only to realise I’m stuck in a corporate den.

Poetry: An Epitaph For The Modern Age

Here lies he, eyes so wide,
a bright screen set aside.
Virtual self in decline
but can now touch earth and pine.
Leaping up, on the wind he rides.
In regression, he comes alive.