Cossetted.

In the clamour, we only hear the songs of our own lives;
cossetted, yet searching further comfort,
always seeking:
bricks and mortar, bargains, more.
Half-formed thoughts bubble up
as we step over the puddles,
side-stepping faults.
A scroll through atrocities before bedtime,
white glare lighting our fed, full faces,
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wear the battery down,
ready to sleep fitful,
dreaming of walls and fear, and dirty cash.
How dreadful, you think, the news is today;
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