View from the Shadows

In the lonely shadows I hide, watching two worlds collide, scared to venture outside. I live with pride, that I am not part of what’s going on outside, part of the animalistic joyride, of sheep that swim with the tide. I’m happy in this lonely place where I hide.

Some nights I have cried and to find a reason I have tried, but no reasons come to mind, why people should hurt fellow man kind. The actions of hate are just outside my gate, no sign it will dissipate. People shouting cussing each other and their mother, no respect for each other nor religion or colour.

I look from my hide out, from my long lonely shadows, safe behind strong doors and windows. Watching the animals to and fro as the battle scars sows, where it ends, who wins, no one knows, just hatred row on row. Tear gas and burning cars, sticks and stones, co-ordinated on mobile phones. I still hide, all alone, watching the hatred roll down the road until it is back out of site mistakenly thinking that’s the end of the fight.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

The Runner

Chilling fog across peat bogs howling dogs on timber logs. Loosing footings stumble and fall the eerie sound of the owl call. Cold and wet, on the run, no happy days no fun or laughs just big over coats and scarves. On into the dense echo of the fog, bordering rancid bog. Light up ahead, fill with dread hunter force wanting you dead.

Change direction, into a stream, back over tracks, to cover the scent, turn around and head back up the ground, listening to the baying of hounds. Running on empty bumbling and fumbling. Memory still sharp, thinking straight, moving on at a doubled rate.

Silence prevails, lost the tail, temporary derail. Into a culvert, under a bridge, look at the map, quick power nap, then back on feet, system to beat, hunter Force turns up the heat. Come low on the hill then way up high, grey cloud sheets up in the sky, all the runner can spy. Then, in the distance, headlights, the runner has made it to the end on that long winter night.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Revenge

Revenge is sweet and means you are not beat, turning up the heat your aggressor to meet. Yet is your enemy really there, are you really aware? Do you know who the aggressor is or are you just acting while in a tiz.

Forgiving them is the hardest thing, blaming is an easier game. Lashing out at any one who is about because your angry and can’t shout, is not the way to go about. Your fear is misplaced you act like your aggressor, lashing out at anyone who gets in your way, come what may.

When you sit in your cell locked away, this is the small price you must pay, think of the victims who live with this every single day. When humanity is stretched at the edge and it begins to fray, just walk away and come back another day.

 

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Fakes

You do these evil deeds in the name of religion, not one which I know of, one that says that you should kill and maim innocent people who you don’t even know. The one that inside, hatred it grows, that’s right the one that no one else knows.

You Give it a name and it’s the will of your god you claim, yet your actions bring it shame. Whatever the scripture that you follow says, peace is always the way, help your fellow man, it’s all part of the big plan. So, you must be a fake to cause misery for your god’s sake.

Satan, chief spirit of evil, adversary of god, has evil in him but even he is not that grim. So, for all our sakes recognize your god is fake, and this life is opaque. Fellow man this world serves all different gods but they do not kill at will to be a martyr. Satan must have touched you and told you he is true, conning you in the form of god which he hopes you will pursue.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

 

Aftermath

No homes, no aid from a government decayed, food and clothes and shelter a community has paid, where was the establishment to come to their aid, to put lives back together, they lost everything they made. Ten pounds per person, the insult worsens, where is the money donated by other human persons?

A room for the night warm and safe, is that too much to ask; when if you miss a holiday flight, hotels abound; four hundred people with nowhere to live, the irony is profound. The scandal of abandonment, leave them to rot, community cohesion has decided not. Government officials make their excuses home they go to a warm bed and behave like recluses, there are no reasonable excuses.

Subclass comes to the for rocking the country to its core, too big a gap between rich and poor, all because you draw the short straw. Victorian values heaped on the poor. This should not be happening not even in war what do we pay or taxes for. Kill all the subclass make them weak, don’t give them houses they desperately seek. Rich man’s world turned upside down by a blaze in a block on the other side of town.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Agents of Darkness

The agents of darkness strike again inflicting misery death and pain. Plots to kill injure and maim all don in a dark Lords name. The dark Lords weave their evil across their Web, recruiting its agents brainwash their heads.

Lords of darkness agents of death, wreaking havoc on the enlightened, running Scared and Frightened as the Chase To find The Dark Agents tightens, dark agents’ operations heighten. Lords of darkness creating a mess, from an unknown address, you send your agents to do your Dirty deeds up and down the country where ever they need.

Cowards in the extreme, make women and children scream how can they be so mean. Dark agents hoping they will never be seen, to die they are so keen, to be free they don’t know what it means, carnage and mayhem at the scene, under what stone have you been. Oh, agents of darkness who are in such a mess they cause such distress, now we have to clean up this mess.

Don’t snuff out the light, keep up the fight, the agents of darkness know their plight. Hunt them down, take their malice and spite. For we will not bow or give up the fight to live in a country the way we know is right. Lords of darkness you will get bored, why don’t you weald your own sword and stop preaching a fraud? |To defeat the agents of darkness light must come to shine on us all night

Deserted Street

Men and boys say good bye all know the reason why. Called up to serve in a war they don’t deserve on the front line, not reserves. Whole Streets fighting together as a regiment. Swathes of streets empty of men who will never return. Desolate streets no dads to greet, no sons to hug mums, just dear Johns, to all the friends you meet.

Workers side by side, they all came for the same ride, work as a team one unbreakable seam, and go down with a scream. Waste of men and boys who will never know life, but briefly met strife. No guns fired or fixed Bayonet charge, the enemy is still at large. Longing for home, their bed and clean sheets, seeing their families again and walking down those deserted streets.

In their heads, their family implanted safe return not taken for granted. Over the top their turn to drop, an entire street, downed by men from an unpronounceable town. Leaving heart ache in a deserted English Street. Mothers cry, children wonder why, when the officer drops by house after house on the same Street, tears and sadness at each one they meet, finally leaving the deserted Street.