Misfits

The Misfits

Paradise vale where nature is a post-card picture
and every day is equally long, where mules bray,
chicken lay eggs, sheep graze easy amongst olive
trees. no escape from this tedium; unless someone
dies, it doesn’t happen often, we can-on such sad
sobering moment and after the coffin has been
lowered into sandy soil- get legally, blindly drunk
in memory of one, we no longer recall the name
of, but nevertheless was a man, who like us, didn’t
have money to escape this dreary Eden. We who
live here have in common that we came here to get
away from it all, (mostly our selves) we’re misfits,
in a world that marches at a different tune; dreamers
of an Eden on the blood soaked soil of wars.