Poetry

Chris Beckett photo

By

John Watt

An Ideology?

The asylum doors are open..

The insane walk among us..

They have adopted the art of deception..

They have acquired the cloak of invisibility..

They practise smiling..

They practice being normal..

They are now versed in normality by the very people who cared for them in the asylum..

When found out they know to use words and phrases to their advantage.

“Patriot” is a word used a lot for deflection away from criticism.

“Brave” is used a lot to cover up stupidity..

“Bold” to cover up massive blunders.. The insane practise repetitiveness till it’s a fine art..

Truth and fiction are now another work of art for the insane..

They have converted cruelty into a policy..

They have their own Ideology now..

We have been conned massively..

We blunder on waving false flags of war..

We build the bombs..

We sell the bombs..

We drop the bombs.. Now we are in the asylum awaiting release..

We look through the bars from padded cells..

We cry a lot..

A hard rain approaches..

The bells are silent..

Religion left the building long ago..

A confusion holds our hands..

We watch the sheep from our cells..

They bleat at an emptiness..

Content in their illusion of freedom..

The Masters of Illusion tell their stories..

The sheep can read..

They wander to their watering holes..

There they put the world to rights..

Before wandering back smiling in bubbles of self worth..

Sometimes we hear sounds of jubilation from outside our cells..

We hear shouts of Patriot and Brave again..

The sheep mock us..

We pull the curtains in our cells to shut out a sad light..

A sad light that doesn’t shine but blinds..

The blind sheep stumble onwards..

Waving their false flags again.. I grow weary..

That sad light tries to enter my cell..

Is there no escape?

John Watt

Hello my friends. I am a single parent of tender, undisclosed years. My son is eighteen and looking for employment. I live in Scotland which I love, as can be seen in a lot of my short notes. But I also write about the lost, lonely, and dispirited. I feel for them all. My childhood features prominently in my writing. Politicians waffling rubbish are a target for my ire. I have had some short notes published. I enjoy writing, obviously.