Poetry: Imposters

“As the clouds pour their tears down

in the breathy cry of the wind,

I hold mine locked away.

In mere hours the world

threatens to spin

on the edge of insanity

and mock modernised culture

by resurrecting traditional trades in genetics.

To say the house on the hill is a cliché now,

is to say that the internet is a god

and that the users are disciples; neither of it true.

Yet in both cases,

the house and the internet,

are imposters

and the false disciples

are servants; to what end?”

Copyright ©2016 Adri Sinclair