Hanging Poem by GRANT FRASER

Is this my only maturation,
to see it the way
I see it,

where are we...

anyway?

to not get ahead,
or want it.

in-a-way!

or know that you
know, something...

so when is it a
thread, I ask?

with people mowing
around you,

while dangling from
a precipice of thought,

the next one could
make you bad or turn
you mad,

I don't think so,

joyless expertise,
caters to all self
meaning,

no god - no nothing -
know little or everything...

but what do I know
and where does it go,
or grow into,

you can't grow flowers
in this kind of place,

just a tiny particle
do you rub and rub and
rub and rub, and still
not see anything shine,
more than the nothingness
of time's idiot's,

and they always win,
even their offspring
are allotted wings of
some kind!

take them back...

you want to learn
to fly properly,
on the merit of having
lost something clear,
and almost very dear to you...

what good if you cannot
live in the real picture
of who and what you are,

this world is all gimmick!