I am the sound of my own footsteps, treading regret, treading water, passing closed Spoons sprayed on the window: pay your staff! nobody laughs, we've lost all feeling; disfunctionally numb. I knew this day would come. I don't want this to rhyme, I want it to echo and make your ears bleed as you read between the lines. No, it's not fine.
How many sheep succumbed to the slaughter? To boost figures on the high alter of profit. Do you listen to prophets? What do you hear? How do you spell that name you revere? You just listen here.
What is normality? What is normal? A stiff upper lip or dressing informal, to vote with sheep, I beg your pardon; followers, idea borrowers scrawling slogans on buses. Turn your back and they become wolves, oh of course, you knew as much and as such you thought you were prepared.
But not prepared for this: Empty streets, empty shelves, empty minds injected with poison, the boys and the girls are gonna lose out. Nobody's learning, nobody's earning, but yearning for things to return to normal, return to normal? Now where have I heard that before?
May I pause before I go any further, further along desolate streets that echo to the sound of my own footsteps, counting regrets and missed opportunities, taking gratuities in the form of awards which blunted the sword of an angry young man who has now grown old. I was told this would happen.
I will go further and reluctantly tread these streets of fear, where all I can hear are my own footsteps, fleeing from panic and stretching the fabric of organisation, industrial relations. Brothers and sisters we are not gathered here today, but we can communicate like wizards I am flippantly told.
If there is hope it lies with the proles, I was once told, or maybe I read. So, instead of despair; look around without sound, listen and learn, focus your anger, join with the strangers who clap at eight to support the heroes. And, get this: You are one of those heroes!
Capability Red April 2020
