Our Disquiet Masses

If you’re quiet,

in the silence you can hear

nerves snapping

and synapses firing hot,

then burning out;

as well groomed conflict

takes down hearts and minds alike.

Bleeding hearts find no bandage

and coagulate slowly.

Most are left to just bleed out on the floor,

their bodies shape a grim hedgerow

along the path to fortune and power.

Rogue warriors; ragged and tattered,

speak the reason of seasoned conflict.

The better way,

the absolution of sin,

freedom from all servitude.

In the cities,

our hungry hands clamor

for plastic RFID shackles.

A public mad with thirst

drinks deeply of the discord,

for they have long been deaf to music.

Dancing like short strung marionettes

in the blood of the innocent,

swaying under the baton

of the same old maestro.

A familiar face hidden

behind a mask of venerability.

Even close proximity to such power

results in madness.

Can’t you hear it?

 

HG – 2016