Where We Go From Here Poem by Alexander Hawkins

Put it out there - prospective problem populants
have ditched unexpected pragmatism and are pushing for resolution.
Someone needs to go brave it,
show them their greying nebulus of submerged prospects,
a sort of rueful distillation process involving the dire dreggs
of whatever passed for unabridged optimism
under the previous establishment. This charge has legs,
hundreds actually, like a capricious caterpillar
distended then discarded. This is the weight of killer hubris
descending through voluminous stillness, spooking
half dead aspirations and super-mauled soon-to-be carrion
who exist only in the intellectual imaginary - not the common
sort, moreso the tangible kind simpering in the solid vagueness.
You can understand such gloomy disposition, though ambiguity
surmounts the bleak outlook and offers a more gentle handshake.
Take it - that kind of tactile warmth is rare, and one certainty
is thus; it will take some time before things return to how they were.
Curveball circumstance and sociological narrative converge.
The resulting sense of helplessness, of restlessness,
that never really fades, never really changes - but ignore that
and savour the mercurial merry-go-round.