Hope at the Bottom of a Wheelie Bin

To birth a brighter future,

the present has to die,

too much junk from little gods

asks the question; why?

Coz’ life is like a wheelie bin,

stinks, of ugh; too much,

abusive pride; makes smelly juice -

no such thing as clutch,

thus, to find a light of truth,

all, do, have, to wade,

through a sludge of sadness

that humanity’s smugly made;

nausea setting in,

whilst crawling deep inside,

making every parent’s dream

a somewhat retold lie,

callous dirty coins,

pays for every pain,

where all filters are switch on

ornate is now so plain,

the sacks within are thick,

as are all the choices,

poisoned every single right

rigged by those wrong voices,

nearly at the bottom now

just passed by the needles,

sugar coated suicides,

swarming like dead beetles,

in the dark abyss,

the sky is looking black,

it terrifies the soul of life,

where no-one’s looking back,

even with lid open,

it is so hard to see,

a tower made of plastic; mate

can’t even find a tree -

the symbol of all growth,

stunted by the crowd,

putting all their surplus waste,

in here; the filthy shroud,

then deep in the void,

a single moonbeam shone -

like a ripple in the Lethe,

all such gaps were gone -

as what was forgotten,

washed over; very clear,

hope hugging; very tightly –

said “you do not have to fear!”

Understanding candour,

escape was in sight,

for every single darkness;

has corresponding light,

if a bin; can be emptied,

then life; can be revised,

as trashy, are the popular,

and cleaners, are the wise!