Special

Oh how I thought I was so special 

The ideas were all my own personal muses

Unique journeys made in my mind’s own grandiose isolation 

All perused along paths less chosen inside my head

Now that’s a concept, or is it a construct 

My truth, your truth, our truth, their truth, the truth shall out

With each repartition of the word a little more truth dies

As the self evident is manipulated into nonconformity of fact

Is this the track and trail where the political animal nightly stalks its prey?

a topographical landscape of their workings of power

liberally dosed with generous helpings of diaspora 

our brand new, shining bright new, chemically sanitised and fresh new

green and pleasant rolling lands

Our own personal airbrushed over spoil heaps of historical mistakes

Where those who remember a time before the new decree, 

stand only to be rebranded, vilified, and demonised, woke

So here at a junction of synapses I metaphorically stand 

which path shall be the chosen

For truly this lesser path, can not have been already trodden alone

faint imprints show through the newly wet paint 

for those who choose to see and offer understanding 

shining bright as any ancient mariner’s star

The tears of other kindred spirits have already this trail broken.

For our world is one of the constantly contested condition 

Where soothsayers and liars masquerade without retribution

from the full light of reason

In this land even the fool can become king for the day