Pick up the pen
and strike the score.
We know what’s coming
is a war.
We know that time will fade
and we know we’ve created
things like this before.
Blessings of ignorance and grace,
events cascade to keep apace
of those who struggle
to hang on,
and those that write the song
while their sycophants sing along.
What a way to start the day;
pulling the pin on a grenade,
putting orders on the page.
All the world’s a stage
and we’re all players opening day.
The hallowed halls are cold,
the house, the power, centuries old.
The owl and the iron fist,
none of this would exist
without the stories we’ve been told.
The people make a noise,
empty hands, but full of voice.
They cry out to the sky,
for they have seen the lie,
and know that living is a choice.
The song is near the end,
the chorus screams
and strings do bend.
The conductor takes a bow,
the roaring of the crowd
drowns out the consternate.
Be ready for the show.
You’ll know when it’s time to go.
Your queue will come to time,
and we’ll go out and speak our lines
nothing matters after that.
The show was perfect,
lines down pat.
We disappear into the night
and come morning’s light,
it will be time to attack.
So sleep well in your bed,
don’t let your worries cloud your head.
Tomorrow will play out
as we rehearsed aloud,
so save yourself for that instead.
Is it theater,
or is it war?
What does the future
have in store?
An actor, or a king,
or is there anything
anyone has wanted more?
HG – 2022
