David Lacey

Rookie - 287 Points (2/3/87 / Middlesbrough)

Orchestral Proportions - Poem by David Lacey

Generation subsequent, momentum gallops,
Running freely awesome natures rides.
As the wild hunt frolics in the sky.
Politicians in unison must recognise
That which the people keep well disguised.
Hidden from the view of pigsty atrocities stewing,
Boiling, frothing forth a flock of birds
As they tweet in twee harmonies
Of orchestral proportions unheard.

The Sky pale blue and bluer still
The Lovers locked upon the hill,
As we question what it is to love,

What it is to be free in a society that
Feeds you your history the way they would have it,
They way they read it through tainted eyes of bias magnitudes,
All to feed an attitude of hatred for their brother,
Each black ribbon sister in distress.

Confessions uttered through pain of inescapable agony,
Confessions granted under duress.
Messy scenes the mob obscene is outside the courtroom waiting.
Chained to the railings, Freedoms voice is heard through a thousand violent shades,
Fading, jaded, barely recognisable above the din, drowning in the white.
Drowning out of sight.

How can we trust a law that is no law unto itself?
How can we know who we are if we are to place
Individuality upon the shelf? As we are adorned as one in many,
Within uniform conformity as its rages upon the souls of the young,
The teachers say it’s better as you can’t rich from poor
Yet to be poor it is no illness and to be rich there is no cure.

How can we come to trust a heaven that will allow you to
Buy your time from hells despite? How can we trust a church
That would have you blinded from the light?
Mumbled under wings of fire angelic confessions due,
How can we trust a bird when 2000 years ago he flew?

I feel sorry for the bird, for the littlest of lambs,
Sacrificed for the sins of man when no sin had found its manifestation
From his hand. All that’s wrong has been done in his name,
The littlest of lambs, his memory shamed,
By the blood of every man that kills with him in heart,
Shamed into slavery to bear the bitter cup of injustice,
Done in the name of his own father from whom he
Never should have parted.


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Poem Submitted: Sunday, November 20, 2005



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