Tyrant., poem from Albert Seymour.,

It's a lonely road the only road,
Written in code waiting for time to erode and corrode,
The one in control explodes as all emotion implodes,
Engulfed, like a savage wolf chewing on gristle,
Too stubborn to listen I whistle,
Get the attention a momentary time suspension,
Suspended on the cold arms of winter, As I hint to her,
Mother nature answers with a crash of thunder
And suddenly in a blunder I'm plunged under,
I shout, calling out,But no ones here now,
Left to thoughts of how,
Stuck within extreme opposites,
Atop I sit looking down,
And the crowd shouts out now,
Now they sudden lease of life,
Not when I was beneath the knife,
Fighting for my own life,
Jesus Christ what's with the heist,
Would be nice to entice some willing advice,
Now and again before I pick up this pen,
Scribble life on to the backs of other men,
Offloading problems and customs defining new outcomes,
But never really finding the answers, left asking,
The dancers keep dancing to the tune of creation,
The nation retreats to the silence, back to the violence,
Forget where the light went no longer is life vibrant,
Sink back to the hand of the tyrant cause that's where I went.

A.S.,