In this place without sanction,
Where discomfort's like breathing
And conflict is as common as rain.
Still we persist in smiling,
In trying to be admired
Or, failing that, appearing admirable.
So sometimes it is hard to raise our hands and say
And even the smallest pleasure has an itchy catch.
Of recognition of us in its eyes. It seems to flicker
If only we were better, righter, more sure,
So our new gears spin, more reasons applied to unreason,
To salve with savage comfort a sense, at least, that we
Created this morass of ill will and sickness
Try to be patient as the place explodes with rage and stupidity,
Write out our hopes for a peace we have lost already.
What else can we do?
Of an empty ball bouncing through it:
Things to do, tempers to manage, thoughts to suppress.