Where's the idea

Can't speak,

no voice.

Atrophy of muscle,

mind and body decline.

Hands out to reach you;

but miss you.

You're falling.

In terminal decline.

Can't know by asking,

nor thinking, I'm looking for you.

No action without, but torment in knowing.

Thinking, no feeling.

Spiritual decline.

Spirit no god.

The space between I and Us, nexus of both.

Here's the decline.

But who will generate,

and catch when we miss.

What lets us feel, when thinking not enough.

Our speech, actions and more.

No replacement, no substitute

But where's the support.

A peoples decline.

Just pretending?

Not what once thought; in time revealed.

Neither intention nor commission, but the act remains.

The deed is done.

And here we are with what remains.

Not quite hell, yet paved with good intentions.

Bought the advert, not the dish delivered.

Yet you play with the toys you have.

Else struggle with the games of others.

In imitation we salute; but maybe just the finger.

In frustration it will break.

Holding back fuels the void.

A measure of what can be.

Potential, but do we measure up?

Is it ours, or just pretending?

And they tell us lies

Words on the page battle thoughts on the mind.

Smudged ink scatters the field as a collateral stain,

Whilst demons sneer at the rotten corpse of good intentions.

Battle not yet won.

Words don't rhyme,

Sentiment don't chime.

We pick and poke,

make do, get by and get through.

Worn down, torn up

Spat out.

It's life.

Re-joined, re-thought, re-fought;

and go again.

Ideas snipe to the cacophony of argumental artillery.

Metaphors and similes cower for cover.

The wise man speaks,

words build a city in dreams.

Corruption of man builds hovels for the many,

palaces for the few.

Yet when did a dream keep the rain off?

Wise men speak no more.

And they tell us lies,

those on high.

Of life and reasons why.

Us the soldiery, rabble, the cannon fodder.

We'll die for their cause:

in ignorance, ecstasy or disbelief.

This at least we know.