Unlike a sickle or hammer.
Bourgeois poetry
Expresses reality.
In a mysterious manner…
Unlike a sickle or hammer.
Workers toil
In their non-existence.
Earning the reality reserved…
For the rich wrapped in foil.
Machines without souls
Call to the church bells ringing.
The privilege sing to the sky…
The workers look to the soil.
Honesty and matter
The factory clatters.
Unequal is the distribution…
Indifferent is the manager.
Revolution
Sets the record straight.
Nature unfurls…
All receiving without question.
Adrian Chan-Wyles (14.8.2018)
Torquay
