I’m sick of this polka parisienne
that all trapped songbirds sing,
but why complain when the sounds
that I crave aren’t even audible,
how could I listen to words through metal bars
if I cannot stop and think in my time of living.

I watch film snippets with familiar faces,
they make me think of home, but something is missing
The motion lacks life, depraved of emotion
it lives, yet not within me, but in hopes.
I have lost the touch of that reality
and as the credits roll I suffer of a saudade
that I didn’t know that existed.

In the film,
I watch souls escape modernity into nearby forests,
they’re poets, artists, singers and songwriters,
It’s in the woods that they love where they feel at home,
whilst I like to fear death and breathe through concrete
–my home was built around looting and riots where the worst of humanity
sadly comes to light.

When I am with the world,
I listen –eyes closed–
There’s a gentle whisper in the breeze:
“Sick of it, sickovit, sicko’it.”


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