The dictatorship of man

The musty scent of testosterone

hangs stale in every corner of civilization.

Feminine intuition drenched.

Oestrogen driven saviours

down trodden, weakened,

by the muscular sinews of masculinity.

Their strength visible

in the eyes of every living creature,

except man.

Whose continual struggle

with his own ego,

will reduce life to a pile of rubble.

Worthless to everyone

but the puppeteers,

whose pockets we mindlessly line.

Loose change

thrown absentmindedly,

into the outstretched hand

of a begging nation.

He averts his eyes,

in contemptuous judgement

of the playmate of his youth.

Grace tugs at the veil,

continually conspiring.

Her soft scented hand attempting,

to remove the heavy scent

of the dictatorship of man.

His Decorated Soldier

I attached pins to his words;

wore them like badges

sewn onto my breast.

Accomplishments, they were.

Skills attributed

to an adherence

of another’s will.

Another’s way of being.

A projected accolade

to which I conformed,

reflecting nothing more

than his desires;

a mirror of his intentions.

How proud I had been,

to be his decorated soldier.

My medals shining

more brightly than my heart.

The velvet lined box,

taking pride of place

above and beyond

any of my own desires,

which sat muted

in the shadows of a love

I could never make whole.

it is time

The clock strikes the hour

slapping her sharply across the face,

admonishing her precision;

her steadfast requirement to record

each and every second.

Never looking back,

the metronome of her heart

keeps her dutiful march steady

as she leaves history in her wake.

Her divine potentiality,

kinetically buoyant.

Its creation equal

to its destruction.

She waits

for no-one.

Time waits

for no one.

No queues

or overtaking masses.

Mankind scared

to look her in the eye,

scared to take hold

of her ticking hand,

for he will find it empty.

Empty of everything.


but for this moment.