The self-appointed mighty
stand upon precarious pedestals
of judgment and power,
built from the ruins
of what could have been.

They placate the people
with empty platitudes
and false promises,
just enough to quell
their concerns
and keep them
from questioning
the hidden agendas
they do not want known.

The weak are so willing
to worship at this
looming altar of illusion,
carrion for the vultures
to fill their already
bloated bellies.

They spew proclamations
of progress carefully
crafted to deceive,
like snake oil
peddlers of old,
they sell their lies
and the people buy
without question,
it’s easier than thinking
for themselves.

They drink the Kool-Aide
while begging for more
even as the poison
consumes them.

A surrender of self
is underway,
conform or be cast out,
set adrift in a dying sea.

Stand up and be shot down,
speak up and be silenced.

You have the
right to listen
but no longer
the right to speak,
unless of course,
you’re reading
from their script.

They’ve lined
the citizens up,
filed them into
a maze, all
vying for some
non-existent prize.

Misguided and
delusional, dropped
into an inescapable
labyrinth, lab rats
bending to the will
of their captors,
easily manipulated,
completely expendable.

The puppet masters drool
as they watch their folly,
not even knowing
they’re attached to strings too.

With feigned disdain
they watch the innocent suffer,
quantifiable loss is ignored.

Mindless masses
frolic like fools,
but there’s a storm coming
and they refuse to take refuge.

The weatherman says
it will pass them by,
the weatherman is always right,
except when he’s wrong.

There’s a storm coming
and it’s going to rain.

Oh, how it will rain.

Crystal R. Cook