1984

“Whoever controls the past controls the future, whoever controls the present controls the past.” – George Orwell

Spring

Spring, cold and crisp,
grass crunching underfoot.
Breath misting, for a short time,
dissipating as the sun strengthens.

Cars, frosted front to back,
engine squealing in the cold morning light.
Sun rays blisteringly bright,
fracturing thru the frost.

A promise of warmth,
withheld until longer days.

The Battle

Morning, evening, noon and night,
evil walks within our sight.
With winged hate and hollow eyes,
it walks on earth and soars thru skies.

Awake, asleep, somewhere in between,
a watchful eye perceices all unseen.
Sword held high, platinum armor glinting,
staunchly held against the pox evil brings.

The clash begins, our hero stumbles,
his high minded ideals humbled.
His sword has dropped, he falls to one knee,
evil looks one with unbounded glee.

Yet out hero has only faltered, not fallen,
evil sees our hero’s resolve, crestfallen.
Sword raised and chin held high,
the hero rushes in, his destiny nigh.

Service

Warm bodies, useless in their skills,
hired en masse, fired en masse.

Helping those incapable of
assisting themselves.

Half those employed are saints,
half because no one else will take them.

In an industry made to help
the most vulnerable,
an appalling lack of standards permeates.

What can be done?
People are needed, and few want to come.
Do we take the job ourselves,
and struggle with a caustic combo
of hard work and useless compatriots?
Or do we bemoan the injustice,
and do what is best for us?

Neither is an obvious choice.
One noble in it’s service,
one practical in it’s self-service.

Is it better to help others
at the sacrifice of ourselves,
or ourselves
at the sacrifice of others?
How do we find the balance?