Concluding Sonnet

Russia is now a kleptocratic state.
Sad for a nation once so principled.
With ‘for the workers’, a dramatic break.
Corruption, thievery, when it is told.

Its Communism was always threatened.
Under existential threat, developed
to dictatorship; then the death happened.
In chaotic aftermath, enveloped.

Under veneer of capitalism,
and it allowing inequality,
came rampant, controlling, gangsterism.
Proceeds abroad, ‘safekeeping’ guarantee.

With bribes and extortion, the state immersed.
Western greed bad. Amazing, Russia worse.

The Chinese dictatorship is awful.
Uniformity with the leader’s line.
Uncomfortable truths met with denial.
No dissent brooked any place, any time.

Stalinist, the best description, I think.
Chairman Mao took much from the Russian boss.
Omnipotent Emperors, not extinct.
‘Live on’. In current rule, powers not lost.

‘For the workers’; ‘for the masses’ control,
by police enforcement turned into ‘controlled’.
Mob-like supporters, when needed, have role.
Quick for thuggish bullying to unfold.

Abroad, good at trade and development,
but imperialistic in intent.

Britain has a skimmed rice pudding surface
of apparent respectability.
But beneath, in huge quantities immersed,
rottenness bubbles, quite literally.

Undeserved, unjustified privilege
for the feudal and the moneyed classes.
Unmerited, distorted leverage.
Their scams, for public policy passes.

The thievery of capitalism
exceeded by its crony variant.
To punish objectors, there’s provision.
But of unpunished crimes, it’s the parent.

Fraud, corruption, ‘laundering’, pollution.
Where greed is, pimp Britain in collusion.

Hope is the last there is when there’s no hope.
For a miracle. For a change from doom.
A survival that is, somehow, bespoke.
Tailored, and unmuted, wish to assume.

Hopeful that the worst will not come about.
That that fate is not inevitable.
In near-certainty, a prayer for the doubt.
Redeemable, not irretrievable.

Some circumstances seem to say ‘hopeless’.
And you are a fly in a spider’s web.
But not want to die in utter distress,
as a useless victim, when all is said.

So, hope. Refuse to believe there is none.
Not accept future all dusted and done.

We are off on our journey. To the end.
To the end of the path, and beyond that,
to the end of where the land does extend.
Out to sea, then, to where the waters lap.

We’re well into the distance heading out.
To the end of the earth, I imagine.
Out from there, toward outer space, no doubt,
where the sights and the silence, amazing.

To the end of living, bound. But, the end
Just the emptiness of the massive void.
Not get through that even if so intend.
Journey’s end. Impossible to avoid.

But, we will have gone all over the place,
even if, at the end, we leave no trace.