To my Unborn Son

 

My unborn son, I drill down through the wires

that thread my battered brain and ask,

“What kind of world will drag you through the fires

of earthy human passion?”

A world whipped on by trolls whose eyes are screens,

who wear a democratic mask,

rewiring human hearts into machines

devoid of roots and nation.

Machines for which a self-inspired idea

is now a soundwave-bottling task,

for which the orthodox and toadying sneer

is now the height of fashion.

We stand now in an empty dawn.

That’s why, my son, you’ll stay unborn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://alfieshoyger.blogspot.com

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859

 

© Gammon 2020
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