Right in the thick of it, I’m sick of it,
Seven days of scarlet nights,
Mornings pasted into white,
As days pass in a flash of spite
And spitting rage at morning’s light.
But painted on a face of joy,
Not more a man than once a boy
And perilously seeking still
A momentary respite.
Sullen eyes of red concede
A faded victory crudely torn
From sight ahead while shadows steep
On daisy-scattered un-mowed lawns.
Where streaks of green seem stunted yet,
Their hearts are cold and minds are set
To care for one and all for none,
Lest those out of sight beget.
Let those of sound mind not forget.