L. B. Mek

distilled, Posture


To what purpose

till what need

how low must hope diminish

succumbing, to our fears


feet incumbent of each weary stumble, we’ve titled: progress

fingers trailing in scuffed remnants, of unhealthy stubbornness

eyes glistening - suppressing, windswept volcanic emotions

breath stuttering – overwhelmed, by our lung’s stagnant despair


regressive regret aimlessly deluding reactionary remorse

divisive depictions viciously reverting dreamed delusions

words cacophonous, to no avail

mining meaning in rumbustiously rhythmic, hollow: words


suffering, needs no meter or foot-tapping rule

all-of-time bears witness to our collective legacy - of rue

my journey too, an evolutionary echo of well-rehashed failings

like youthful ignorance mistaking refugee status – for home comfort\'s…


Till whose whistle do we continue, smiling

Bulldozing our way through, tear-stained regret


Is our backbone, permanently crippled

Curving further, generation after wasted generation.



Will we utilise accountability’s, innate potential

for introspection fuelled:




© L. B. Mek

June 2018