Messages

Are misty.

The messages are misty,
The plan is cauterised,
A way to stop the bleeding,
And I do surmise.

The path along this tricky trail,
The stumbles and the falls,
They are mostly unknown,
Made by uncertain calls.

A ticket in a lottery,
A place where we’ve been thrown,
And just as remaining subscribers,
like the wind, we are blown.

Into the air and the dare,
We try it at our peril,
And stay safe and circumspect,
Or dance with the devil.

What is the new normal?
In truth, nobody knows,
Things will be so different,
And some are comatose.

Somnolent and sleeping,
In another place,
Wrapped in a repository,
Far from the human race.

It’s time to strip away the floss,
To tear down the façade,
And settle on simplicity,
Life is a charade.

Time to bend and find a friend,
Face up and fraternise,
Send out an SOS,
And try it on for size.

©

David Rudder
2022

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