Poetry

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Contemporary is a temporary respite
fighting its way up sloping, shifting sand
in Aba Almighty's egg-timer;
wildly floundering, wimpering for more time
to counteract, circumvent and speculate
with mediation moguls (paid by the hour)
who pray that sacrificial buried heads
of compatriots will plug that hungry,
plundering black hole in it's foundations
for once and for the people, by the people,
of the people.

This consecrated sand contains the honoured dead
whose bones by now luster beneath the trudge,
the drudge; they died in vain after all
for this nation, once under God,
now deems itself
above the need for all of that.
Nobly it advanced
ignobily it will perish
above the hallowed ground
of civil war

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