The Dying Days #Poem #Painting by Nikos Laios

 

Memories linger, they haunt our present,
Fragments of living, moments in time,
I hear the foghorn of a cruiser-liner
Leaving the harbour and I’m brought back
To the present, and the sweet aroma
Of pungent flowers fills the air in a
Late dying summer.

I hear the sounds of drumbeats and
Marching jackboots and processions
And leftist protesters, shouting voices
And the chiming of clocks on musty
Bookshelves in drawing rooms
And rustic halls across the city.

The air is thick with tension,
And I see the sullen faces in
Windows weighed down by the
Cost of life, numbed by the modern world;
Technology, news streams, death, rape
And violence, aimless and transparent
Floating identities and pronouns,
Activist causes that failed to fill
Up all of their existential holes,
A mixed-up decaying western
World sinking and dying under
The weight of its own hypocrisy
And self-inflicted wounds,
The apogee of Its civilisational
Heights long gone, Godless
And soulless, and I pour another
Scotch and light up a cigar
To the sounds of opera
And revel in the decay
Of these dying days
And await the end
With stoic dignity.

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With a digital painting from Nikos Laios

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