This Modern Stagnation

The growing is slow,
although it is now springtime.
Indeed, things appear
To be working backwards as
tulips are stunted,
and wintry winds still blow hard.
The gods and angels
fled such a long time ago.
No one believes in
the once vital power of
myths and legends; just
the curious among us.
Perhaps, Eliot
was right, when he named April,
as the cruellest month.
Although paradoxical,
I fear the shrieking,
of its unfamiliar
advances towards
me, in Time's bright whirligig.
Sweet liberty is
but a pipe dream, amidst this
relentless march of
neo-fascist bitterness.
Lullabies have now
become discordant ditties;
the old, rocking horse
rusted; rotten to the core,
in the forgotten
nursery of dream-visions.
Apathy can cut
down winged promise in its tracks
The distance is set,
within the vast depths, of
your inconsolable
blue eyes. O what went wrong?!
Communion is
not possible amidst this
haze of nothingness.
All things are disposable
in this cut-price world.
The arrows of modern love,
never hit the mark,
At the centre of the heart.