The roof over our head by Stephen Daniels

I am not a silent poet

This lofty position offers no consolation
for a weighted opinion, heavier than a ballot box.

These roofs are built too high
to climb down, ladders out of reach.

One vote used to equal one vote,
but now I can see it is worth less.

An exchange rate of diminishing returns,
poverty continues to climb,

real returns are captured
in matured earnings.

The charts trend upwards
when turned upside down,

the long-term figure is positive
through post-truth lenses.

Meanwhile, I am up on the roof
refusing to hum Drifters songs,

sneering at the people below,
who later I will break,

as I land – from my ever declining
set of options and eroded principles,

which rush at me faster,
the further I fall.

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