by Nick Gisburne
I
He journeys far, in storm and gale
O’er mountain, hill and glen
Yet in his quest does not prevail
The car breaks down again
II
Polluted, ashen, stark and grim
The shades of death and gloom
A cry. A scream. Fate calls to him
“Oy! Tidy up your room!”
III
My torment brings me no release
A soul burned black and bitter
In wretched hope for inner peace
I paint my toes with glitter
