Bad Faith
Do I sleep? Do I go down the hill?
I'm drowsy, There is maybe one place left open.
I hold my heart
And feel the inconsolable sorrow
Of the world asleep.
Dragged by envy from the bed
To look upon the happy lot,
Weaving between the cars,
Knowing- when things go sour,
It'll all come out in the wash.
I go down amongst the men
Who groan on a youth up and died,
Fearing not the heavy death but the decay,
In the face of another spring
And losing friendships.
In world divined by comparison
Where happiness is the end of suffering
And truth is just reasoning In the frame of a bigger lie.
I take my bad faith and wear it out;
In empty small cafes on weekday afternoons,
Talking loosely about war
A thousand miles from death.
In dark small bars on tree lined streets
Where the buses go down
Like bulls over the hill to darkness.
---
Sparrows
Some men never
doubt their purpose,
they push it all
aside like a
man traipsing through
weeds.
Whilst the good falter
over breakfast,
the world climbs up.
And the hysterical
birds detail every
rising inch of
torture 'oh the
despair!' they say.
The sun shines through,
on good men caught
in the harness
of other mens
best guesses. They
pass room to room
whilst the birds leap
up, blown limb to
limb in the winds
of no chance.
Tom Harding is twenty eight years old and live in Northampton, England. In the little time left between working and living he writes poetry and draws. He has been published in various places including Parameter Magazine, identitytheory.com, unlikelystories.org and nthposition.com. He has a collection of his work at www.tomarianne.net.
