Taken at dusk

The mayflower pollen spreads itself on gust of spring. Taken down the river run currents of the country landing in the fields and the banks of land long forgotten. We drive past its bloom in contraptions fuelled by history burning, burning our heritage to the sky in search of a dream long lost. Cast down your pollen mayflower, in vain. For the fertile ground that once churned inside our minds has been paved over, been suffocated with seas of AstroTurf gardens each one a sanctuary of suffering. Deano rests easy in his plastic, crap, redundant, utility patio set. Happy in the knowledge that he really doesn't have to give a single flying fuck, the time for action is over, the time for change is gone, we can all just flick the switch and turn out the screaming of the world for the fire is long past, embers remain but only to warm our hearts as we slip into the deep dark slumber of our final years. Hope is hell and hell is hope, push against the wall and it may stay standing, but an uneven wall will never cease to be that, crumbling at the roots, cracks in the stone, it will all tumble down.