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I am Ill.
Struck down with the deadly virus of empathy.
A Piscean magnet adrift in a vast ocean of human suffering and emotion.
My solace is sleep where a Muse with a thousand faces and forms visits me,
As I fly through my dreams, soaring above the city,
Performing aerial acrobatics for the swirling mass of people below
Who only half see me through their masks of cold indifference
And neurotic, obsessive consumption,
Attempting to fix the lack of meaning.
In the half light of early morning,
The birds in my garden pull me from my slumber.
The Crows croaking their morning mantra.
The Magpie with a rattle in his throat.
The Robin and Hedge-sparrow with their sweet
Haunting melodies
And the Dove softly cooing.
I Stare at the sky and watch the clouds floating by
Far above the battlefield of Humanity that begin their daily cacophonous din.
The convoys of trucks, buses, cars, vans and motorbikes
Like a gigantic chaotic military operation bent of some deadly destruction
Begin their morning commute to and from nowhere.
Should I say 'Happy New Year? '
What year?
What time?
Whose time?
The Christian, the Jew, the Arab, the Egyptian, the Chinese, the Mayan, the Polynesian?
I send you only warmth and goodness.
Brian Routh
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Brian Routh
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