Purple blots

Purple blots appear on the horizon,

A woman cries on a mat,

A man breaks their fist on a tree

I peer through the looking glass,

Abbey lubbers patrol the ruins now,

They hum a peculiar tune:

“Punish, punish,

Weep, all you may,

Now is the time of sin,

You brought this death,

It was a slow and insidious death,

You could have stopped it,

There was no whimper or bang,

But a lack of appreciation.

Easy came first,

Greed came second,

 Entertainment came third,

Labour came fourth,

Art came last,

Now your souls are gone,

All for a quick buck,

You cared, not, when the artists starved,

For you thought you were better than them

Now weep for what is lost.

I set the looking glass down,

You could crawl back,

I could crawl back,

You should crawl back

I should crawl back

I can’t/ I won’t/ I shan’t

This is the beginning,

I know.

I draw the purple dots in the horizon,

My eyes become circular,

A woman weep on a mat,

A man breaks his fists on a tree.

I stare through the windows of the sphere,

I see the other artists in their footballs,

Maybe- just, maybe, I can save them.

No

No

You are not ready.

I am not ready.