A cycle, of historic repeats,
But it wasn't news for you,
Thread upon silver thread,
Sparkling under artificial sun,
You never knew it was commonplace, they never told you.
Disaster, tragedy, the ones they show you,
Through distorted lenses,
They show you those for the power to impose.
To influence, to win souls.
A silvery, leathery whip, bejewelled and glittering forth,
It sounds forth in a figure of eight.
They won't show you the ghosts and ghouls that break through their frozen ice spider webs.
What voice the objector gets is reflected through carnival mirrors,
It loses meaning and nuance,
Until it fits, squarely in the targeted egg shaped hole.
Silenced by a swing and snap.
And news of shame and horror, is turned on and off like operating liquid taps,
The rest quietly unnoticed, the all seeing gaze relaying nothing,
Those raising above carefully cut down,
Like slaves in a Spartan field.
Or turning nothing into unread stats,
And slandering and name calling whatever hosts scepticism inhabits.
All as you sit, willing,
And dream the dreams of decades ago,
Of a world not strangled by ladders and fortifications,
Into most definite inhuman decay.
And in darkness, the silvery whip appears as a sun,
For we are not allowed to see our world,
In the stark light of day.