The street is full today
of faces that I know. 
I see them everywhere 
in dreams that we all share, 
that pulling undertow, 
subconsciousness at play 

collectively, unsung 
but vivid in my sight.
How is it that we lost? 
What led us here? What cost 
is mounting? Where is light? 
Who are we among? 

The vision of yesterday 
is overtaken, gone. 
Yet struggle still remains. 
We calculate the gains, 
those we count upon, 
those we'll not betray 

despite the fact we're weak. 
So where now do we turn 
to beat back what is dark; 
that confounded oligarch 
who ever strives to burn 
those very things we seek?

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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