CLICKING AWAY.

There’s an old colonial castle
Where the latest and greatest dry out,
Once they’ve wasted the good will they’ve built,

And there they are hoisted up amidst the ceiling rafters,
Where the drafts are keen,
Whilst beneath
The smouldering ash of hickory logs
Is poked to keep its smoke alive,
And allow its fog to rise
And modify
The maladies
That have clipped the crisp
And tender mental states above.

And isn’t it a pity
That all the love in the world
Cannot be used to bathe them in once burnt

By the blistering lights of society’s exposure,
And the shutter speeds
Of the needy,
Who wring the ink
From the photographs
They steal
In order to sell
And allow them to dwell
In American heaven
Instead of everyone else’s hell.