Waiting on inspiration’s proving to be
more frustrating than simply creating
waves, it takes similar measures of a
focussed energy, and there’s plenty
spared, but transient breezes waft by
bearing an election’s neuralgic excess
of raw communal distress, it’s as if a
reminder that you’re not cured yet
Good, you state, it’ll be over in a few
weeks, we’ll be inured apolitically in a
disease-free state where all opining on
governance transforms into humorous
repartee we ignore without suffering
tedium of nauseating factional ire
Yet it won’t go away that easily; life
seems hinged on inane and hopeless
intrigue of electioneering, a no pain,
no gain lunacy bared by egos stoked
into frenzies of moronically evident
flights of concupiscent complicity
© 12 August 2013, I. D. Carswell
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