It is ever the poor we blame,
the precipice on which they stand
requires a nudge
and a shrug
and then we can turn
to the reeling –
our spider lives
mask this visage
of ourselves,
the spinning of webs of conspiracy,
the jumping from hoax to hoax,
the fox has become the hunter,
cunning words his weapon of choice.
Malindy I need your voice,
it is all that is true in this world
the web of deceit
that power weaves
is the demon – tick tock
the sand slipping through,
time erasing
any good that we do,
tick tock, tick tock,
tick tock.
Anne's mediocre poetry 