A dream of damaged men,
who carry themselves
(and worthy causes)
like piles of shattered flint
in ungloved hands.
Tucked away in eyrie places
longing for bread
settling for scorpions
a tangle of wounded capability
stretched to dislocation
amongst a grind of committees
generating final solutions
for the wildness and warmth
of dangerous subjectively.
Each suspects
they know not what they do
yet with deepening stridency,
design hypoxic, anaemic futures
labelled as progress.