Moral Arrow from Crooked Bow
The rain is found and lashes down in sheets,
dividing mimicries of certainty
for those of interested minds
(who may seek to have care
in a dry-token community).
Sanctified suns set over there
in pure districts framed by
‘near’ and ‘far’.
Licensed horror stalks a street
whereupon the homeless they may
raise a stake.
I seek nothing, in bare-boned form,
nothing but to strike cold
into the hearts of the puppets
The fine, upstanding figure of success,
you, and your own world leader,
to bring you to mercy, shatter
the china and leave you in
some piss-soaked corner.
The stagnant pools your truest mirror.
For ever and eternity.
And watching the set-piece, your vassals
at peace, a modest prize.