Poem: New Game

 

New Game

 

it was only weather.

a hydrocarbonous tilt of priority.

so said the profiteers and the politicians,

while they gainsaid every threat.

 

they preferred oil and cattle futures,

maybe a few tradeoffs, down the clock,

to deeper, more susceptible speculations.

 

the golden king at the head

said of the surly clouds and simmering blue

that they were only playing a game.

trading pieces over our tragic race.

so said the golden king,

whose crown was actually old, cruel and White.

 

and so the people hid.

they lied from the prowl of consequence.

they lied about their losses,

whenever a storm

swallowed what they knew.

fanaticism ran as a amok

as the spreading wildfires.

 

ignorance.

it became a new kind of swarm.

arm-and-a-legs fell into place. 

and everyone gave.  bent spines

low in shame, a whipped pyramid,

from poor to rich,

 

a new level of false idol,

 

a new kind of game

for propping up the facade of ideals.

a superficial pretty.  stuffed yet empty heads.

a taxidermy, a toxicology,

of destruction and deceit.

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8/27/24