Warm my spine, I may yet crack,
These hairline fissures cross my back
and trace a picture of each hit
I've taken, and threaten to split
me. The patterns fuse and spread
over my neck and round my head
to my eyes, where I read the world
like words, and leaves to be unfurled.

Rotten, though, is the stuff at heart
of these events, each a small part 
from dark and bigger things, that scare
the life from me, should I but dare
to look. The simple things are gone,
this race no longer works as one
for common good or such-like cause
that might attract attention, pause 
the drama that shows how we've turned, 
and been devoured by our western
dog-eat-dog/cat/mouse/child 'ethic'
corrupt-excuse-for politic.

No wonder, then, when I look down
and see my hands are not my own,
I've no choice but to assume the role
of drone, no conscience, default_SOUL.