Being late

Poetry

Wailing clot mound bugles the finale to greying matter
Bard rot ensuing in the excusing mind failing to know
Why this languid creature must always make such a voluptuous show
Of the lacklustre.

Yes the fucking train is fucking late
You fucking wait you fucking wait
Take your bike, the tube being on strike
Extra pay to pad their scrawny arses and such angry slogans carrying forth
You
The deadly rumour of sad tidings
Tardiness indeed
If only you knew the waiting better.
If only patience was your virtue

But ear-splitting lash-bat
Spiking your eyes
Soiling with sweat your wind-ripped clothes
Too often time has slipped from beneath your titchy toes

Once more you challenge
Once more
And then all is lost
And so as once is more and more again
How many alls have you taken and turned
To dust?

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