On the call for the Second Brexit Referendum
This will be the last year as we have previously understood it;
The ides of March, idling have distorted us and our view,
Time unreturned has bitten the clock that first fed it
And charged the hand held in protest to strike and be heard
By the few. Just who are they? We ask, as we search for those who care
And consider the long sought solution not to belong but believe
In both the systems we’ve made and the means by which all expression
Can translate public worry into the private obsessions of those
Who deceive us all and then lead.
As the middle class march towards uncertain horizons
The pavements crumble like biscuit dunked into their death scented tea,
Over blood fed sewers the feet are stepping across smiles and horseshit,
With the sad parade snagging both the throats and codes of the free.
They march for the joke,
The truth of which can’t stay hidden;
That we are the ransacked,
And we, in emptying have lost sight
Of the fire and steel that once forged our future,
And which with the grip and sacred firmament falling
Robs every angry arm of its fight.
March to end time as the end of March marks the struggle
So that both the mistress and masters can mix April’s acid rain
To blame May. When Summer comes we’ll be scorched
By a different heat burning in us,
As we reproach, it devours – with fire’s call to cost, money drains
A million take to the street while millions more suck the shadow
A day in March to bring darkness as the spring in your step gains
It’s limp. Brexit wounds. Even healed the bone will show
Through the shallow; revealing the heart and soul broken
As are the political words they address.
No time will pass, or even soothe each transgression.
Hope, even answered, will not be how we forgive.
Never forget or allow what they decide in your honour.
Each step in March or September is both a vow undertaken
And a breath that shows us all how we live.
David Erdos 24th March 2019