Whenever This May Be I sleep in a little longer in hope that something has occurred in the night -- what a fool! The commonsense of politicians translates into fear among constituents and panic is the new golden rule. I wonder how much hoarded is now beyond use? The clutching heart is as useless as a broken tool. This may be the time propaganda is truth, any history a dead art, those in control waiting on the death of the soul, all art, all song, all story, all poetry for a meaningless order -- this we must survive and with a razor edge sing the blues until a new dawn arrives.
“The clutching heart/is as useless as a broken tool.” This poem has the bright mirror surface of a pond: and the depths that lie beneath! You achieve a lot in a few lines.