The Future

Dark day and I'm on my way.
No light yet fallen I stride through boredom.
Past the doors,up in the lift,
Spill onto the floor,isn't life a gift.
Mug of tea and smoke in chains,
Will yourself,again,to help the aged.
Smile,smile,and pull on my lifting smile.

Sick rate, quids in mate!

It's an abyss in which im hooked,
To feed, clean and tidy up.
But behind the scenes of this venture,
lurk traits that drift
and go to realms of misadventure.

There are jesters in masks,
who wear creeping smiles.
The " lost it " carers who would smack a naughty child.
The paranoid ego, well tempered and mild.
The refined, with elegance, effete,
while in the shit with the poor.

A weak cry alone and ignored,
her tears reach out like spears.
But no-one heeds her calls.
Her every second an agony of pain and final fear,
and who would want to go and say " don't worry dear ".

Two weeks left in living misery'
before her still bright eyes were closed with morphine, in a pain
killing delivery.

The carers came to make her fresh'
before the undertaker cleared the scene.
No-one remembers Doris Groom,
her sad demise,
her sparrow body.
Dignity in death,
I say not, honey!