Melancholia

Melancholia

I can see you,

I can see you coming. 

Your dark shroud

hides you not from me. 

You look at me,

weigh me up

From every angle,

every corner.

I see you,

I see your mean thin smile

split your loathsome face –

Not grey, worn or lined

with the ready burden

that you carry

(and dispense with eagerness,

malignant pride

to those to vulnerable to resist).

Instead

like some awful alien sun

your face glows, cheeks puff,

eyes glint and draw me in. 

Your court me easily,

embrace me in

your malignant charm,

embrace me close

to your awful malformed chest,

your parasitic heart

roots into mine

feeding on its frightened rhythm.

Your deep dark thoughts attempt

to penetrate my flesh, my mind 

and nauseated by your

rancid breath,

oh how I try so hard to resist,

to fight you off

to save my very self.

But your gloom drip, drip, drips

like some eternal icy shower

and protection down

like some collapsing umbrella

rent asunder

by your perfect, perfect storm,

resistance done

you finally penetrate,

penetrate my very heart and soul

and saturated, drowning

in your gloom I descend,

down
into a deep depression.

Red Umbrellas, Christopher Shay

This time

you have worn me down

and won

but then you always win.

Anna :o]

With thanks to the good folk at Magpie Tales and dVerse for the inspiration.

The Death Of The NHS

Read  this and weep.  Cry your bloody eyes out.  You were warned.  You did not listen.  Apathy is easy.  Murdoch provided an ideal opportunity to bury bad news - and buried it was.  I totally missed it.

Your future in health provision is to be changed.  You will allow it as it hasn't touched you yet.  It possibly/probably will  in the future when you are needy - and your needs will not be met.  Visit NHS Support Federation, read all and act.  It is up to you.  Only you can effect the halt of privatisation.  Do something for Gods sake!

Anna :o[

The Painter

He is gone now,

The slick artist

Who painted my dreams,

Coloured my vision,

Decorated his intentions,

Papered over the cracks

Of his little sick schemes. 

He has stripped me

Bare of my ego,

Left my heart bare of trust,

And scraped the hope

From my soul

As my dreams turned to dust. 

Yet I still love him,

My faux painter,

My forger, my faker

And I gloss over his faults,

For he is etched deep in my psyche,

My handsome heart breaker.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the inspiration.

What is this?

What is this?  

What is this that ails us? 

This malady,

This malevolence,

Which infects us easily

When wounds laid bare

Become easy hosts

To societies ills,

This sickness sweeping

Disaffected youth, hotheads,

Pyrexial with adrenaline

Light bonfires, bonfires

That fan the flames of racism,

Burn bright the beacon,

The bloody beacon that

Lights the way to bigotry.

How easy

They succumb to stereotype,

The looters, the arsonists,

The bigot's fodder;

The bigots dream gifted,

Gifted by the very underclass

They wish to further

Marginalise.

Black, brown, white –

The underclass,

United by deprivation,

Divided by difference. 

Hooded they roam the streets;

Pack mentality

Supersedes rationality,

For rationality

Has no business here

As they scavenge

Like hungry primeval beasts

On looted goods

And feed on the

Adrenaline rush of anarchy.

Oh how this anarchy,

This pleasure

Of fleeting power

Runs fast through veins

Infecting systemically
The very body of
Our nation,

Its fever flares

In new hot spots

As hooded youth

Copycat, mimic

The initial opened wound

And light fires to their freedom,

Their awful new found freedom

Where death has become

Its awful victim.

Yet not all this underclass,

This nations poor of hope

Run riot

And watch instead,

In utter disbelief,

As seemingly abandoned
By enfeebled,
Directionless police

And the distant leaders

Of our troubled state, 

They attempt to

Comprehend

The incomprehensible. 

Soon the infection

Will be treated –

Yet the patient

Will not be cured. 

The virus will hide

Under its own hood,

An opportunist,

Watching, waiting

For a fresh new wound

On which to reek its

Destructive qualities,
The qualities of a sick society. 

It will come again.

Anna :o]