The World Runneth Over

or The World is Just a Margin Now

The world is open;
Far too open.
And opportunity strangles
Those intent on caution.

The world does hurry,
Yet catches slow
On to simple warning signs,
Lights that flash too fast
And critical senseless rhymes.

The world is full,
Yes, over-full
Of conviction without doubt,
And the ceaseless pull
Of counterfeit compassion.

The world does know
And knows too much.
It's ridiculously smart.
It'll analyse an organ
And tell you it's a heart.

The world is cruel;
Not cruel enough --
Its blade is single-sided
And pointed at itself.

The world is just a margin now;
The permeable wall of a cell
Possessed by anything that passes through;
Thus wholly consuming hell
And all the devils who fell.

The world is small,
Yes, far too small
For all these stamping giants.

The world keeps secrets
In its sleeping centre;
Shibboleths that help to close
And cause to follow slow,
Those permeable people
Who pretend that they know.

Trebuchet Under Construction, Rylestone (2026).