long sleeping
in comfortable beds
with warm pillows in
air conditioned houses
cars on finance and
£800/month apartments
stuffing their faces
with overpriced meals
in Spinningfields
they have lost
the essence
there is no will
there is no fire
the fallacy
remains
unconquerable
comfort kills us
because we
wait for death
without first living
we don't feel
even when smacked
across the jaw
no longer searching
for the bones of it
the heart of it
chasing
the dying light
without direction
without meaning
the search for truth
is precious
it is rare
like the timeless symphony
or the assassination
of a president
we must be
ridiculed and hurt
broken and shot
for the truth
it must
strike
recklessly
and we need not
fear
the
truth
only
accept it
This poem was previously published in the chapbook 'The Streetlights are Beckoning Nirvana' (Analog Submission Press)