Stark light of day

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.

A Deathly Rising Sun

 Victory celebrated oceans away.

A deathly rising, with the sun.

Champagne uncorked, like shots fired.

Sparkling wine poured into tall glasses,

Flowing like spilt blood.

A celebration is in order.

A foe has been disposed of, it seems.

And bloodlike, champagne spills unto red fabric, silk,

It stains it with the pattern of a maze.

Like a computer chip, or concentration camp.

With the rising of the sun, there is celebration, oceans away, with flowing champaign.

A dawn rising, cements itself, as cross and green crescent is treaded under foot,

And the sky reddens, like a flag or like blood.

And the champagne spreads across a map,

On every key point, it rests.

Conquest will not be needed,

But libations, of wine and blood, flow nonetheless,

In celebration of a long dead penman god,

Whose vision guides the blood rising on land and sea, and a spider silk network, throughout East and West, loyal yet, as seeds.

A new Venice and a new Rome. And a new road, in silk, laid fresh.

And celebration is had, a harvest is wrought,

And blood pours over the cold steel produce.

And terror treads quietly, night and day, in full sight of all who see. 

A celebration is had, and sacrifices are made,

Perhaps of you, as of them, perhaps just of your soul, and mine.