What of my Brother?
Whose life has moved along many different lines…
Whose experiences could use up all of England’s inkwells,
Whose linguistics could have surpassed even the Bard’s lines,
What of him the large precariat Lion, strong but inwardly howling..
What now? What of his life? What then?
Where should he hide? Why?
Whose only conceivable crime was to be different to the gingerbread cutout for me and my kind.
Who struck out so lonesome a visionary vanguard, misunderstood from every side.
Who wasn’t able to traverse the systems that push him, kick him down and kill his mind, his spirit his chance at life..
Melting and moulding, stuffing it all inbetween and amongst the camps of the lower classes, of the “people-like-me’s” and our kinds.
Whose ambition comes like a seasonally treated windup clockwork, buffed up to a new shine, But like every internal working it brings attention to itself again, sure as an apple falls from a tree.
Here it is, it stretches out, is hacked at, splutters and withers, congeals and dies.
Every year whenever the sun shines.
The end heralded by a ticking of the clock and an addition of a ‘1’ to the numerical understanding of his life.