The drunken optimism is one born of fear,

fear of pessimism and fear of poem.

Running in the dark they imagine the light

that creates fruit bountiful and fresh,

in a cave that only decay exists.

They believe they can dictate the terms

by holding a golden torch

higher and higher still

until their ceiling

aches and stretches against reality.

Should we pity them or praise them

the alcohol soaked optimism,

that runs with fools blindness.

Should we care….

that the walls of their creation are empty cold and bare.

A hangover of arrogance

awaits them,

a deeply powerful pain

that only ignorance can explain.

What ever the outcome they will bounce back again

fuelled by the need to logic the magic

into a tidy box,

the mind of optimism ferments

A truly terrible stench…

of quiet lies and distortions,

a hunger never met,

the production line mentality

of hidden personal reality and regret.

They that is the optimism

Never understand why

they follow blind

eating sugar of theirs from their own kind

enforcing the rules of “The decree”

upon the unfortunate that are diseased

with confused unsettled minds.

Shaking cold in our lonely isolated

stinking cul-de-sacs of puke,

peering through the cracks,

looking at the golden flames that lead

the optimism track.

We understand we must obey your sickness,

and care for you,

and all the sense you lack.

Jan 2021

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