Through the debris and denial,

Through the scalps and the spoils,

Through the hunger for roadkill,

Through the ravaging of space,

Through the emptiness,

The huddled, the distress,

The voice is strangely silent.

 

You’d think it would say something,

But no, not a peep.

Its acolytes are there, of course,

Busy working the room,

Eyeing up the main chance,

Checking the arrangements

For the next big deal.

 

You get the picture:

The rest is history now,

Filed away,

Suitably mourned.

Priced in.