To my Unborn Son
By Alfie Shoyger
- 850 reads
My unborn son, I drill down through the wires
that thread my battered brain and ask,
“What kind of world will drag you through the fires
of earthy human passion?”
A world whipped on by trolls whose eyes are screens,
who wear a democratic mask,
rewiring human hearts into machines
devoid of roots and nation.
Machines for which a self-inspired idea
is now a soundwave-bottling task,
for which the orthodox and toadying sneer
is now the height of fashion.
We stand now in an empty dawn.
That’s why, my son, you’ll stay unborn.
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Comments
I didn't expect that ending,
I didn't expect that ending, but it is perfect - and so sad. A well deserved cherry for this one Alfie
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Beautiful ending. A change of
Beautiful ending. A change of direction in the poem that was deftly done.
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This is our Poem of the Week,
This is our Poem of the Week, and also our Facebook and Twitter Pick of the Day - Congratulations!
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Picture Credit:.https://tinyurl.com/yd96tpxy
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