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
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.