Stars Amongst The Gloom Poem by Alex Richardson

Just another boy who hates things
Striding without purpose, into the heart of our town
A down-trodden denizen of Hastings
With special brew in his hand, and a long-learned frown

To his mother a misunderstood hero
In a world beset by urban decay
To the papers, a social menace;
A benefit fraud; a church-starved stray,
To his mates jack-the-lad, a diamond kid,
A party animal always ready to play,
To himself an elusive phantom…
A ghost, just finding his way.

As he strides into town though none of that matters
It’s Saturday night – leave the philosophy at home
But as he hits the club, his composure shatters
‘Cause his girl’s kissing his dealer and suddenly he’s alone
…

And then his fists start flying with sickening speed
No thoughts of consequences or how he might plead
Just a perversely sweet oblivion, an ecstasy of revenge

He picked the wrong target though, that dealers got friends
And no one saw our boy again.

To his mother, a source of endless pain
To the papers a story for profit gain
To his mates a tragic reason to pray
To himself an elusive phantom
A ghost, just finding his way.

This is all we’d normally see of the story
The sad surface angles of inescapable doom
But his life had some beauty and a humble glory
There were stars amongst the gloom…

…Here's a fact not captured by any home-office tally:
That boy found joy in The Hastings Arms
And confused young love in Bottle Alley.