End of a Day

A day comes to its end again
And now it’s time to work the doleful pen
Whether the malaise of a child
Or crowds running wild
The words are never short
This is a fearful sport

The melancholia of music conducts a draft
Of libretti, whilst I sit on this sinking raft
Not even the darkness can hide
The truth, for it’s reach is far too wide
So here comes the sorry story
In it there is no glory

The morning broke afore the light
For me the commencement of my day was night
It seems not even the splendour of the rays
Would materialise to avert the awakening of a critic’s gaze
And there was an immediate reason for my pen to shed blood
The devil, on my very head he stood

What news of slaughter or of famine to whet my appetite
What could be better to examine, careful lest it bite
For morning tunes are misleading
Only serving to delay the bleeding
And once the blue blood makes to start
Caution to the wind and with the words depart

So into the day I came
Another, but not the same
For this was tempered by the drug of sleep
Not efficacious in the night but for now to keep
Massaging with a hand so divine
I might imagine that the touch was mine

Nevertheless my duty was to record
As much gore and misery as I could afford
And there was no shortage for to please
As soldiers, babies, innocents fell to their knees
Imploring with their outstretched arms
That I must diligently record their harms

And so, I tell you, raise all hell in streets
Describe, as I do here, each time a tyrant beats
Make images resound and sounds for imagination to never sleep
Do as I say, lest complacency your fate shall reap
The very agonising experience your fellow humankind does feel
For this is not some dream or mirage, this is real

The day was long and as always grey
Even when the sun does shine, it alone can never clear the way
We and only we are able to make good
To do as righteous men and women should
Take heart though, there is movement in the shade
For even from shadows are souls made

Where did the phrases go, the page might well be blank
Was this a trick of time, a nefarious prank
When I woke, intentions were to solve
The troubles of the world, the human mind evolve
Yet here I sit, merely transcribing verses that are bespoke
Whilst officialdom still has its hands around my neck to choke

And what of you
Or did no reader have the will to chew
These fleeting words, then spit them on the fire
Of vengeance, rebellion, shouting from the spire
My hope is that one set of eyes did read
Result of which this mutiny shall feed

©27th November 2011 Hey Hey