A mile of consciences
In equidotted square,
On glib parade, as deft as rooks
Denying, none astir.

A square of comforted
Ambition feting hurt
And drills of never ebbing absence,
Innocence apart.

And while the stately sarge
Shrieks madly at the pack,
A best reflection of his will,
His competence and luck,

This square maintains his place —
Inside, above it all,
Responsible, but then again
Cocksure, untouchable.



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James London

James London


They don't want me to write. Banned from publishing at @JSLondon_