A wedge of black swans fills the sky in the East.
Quiet voices of reason are long silenced by the Beast.
The paper-trail burns before the golden goose-chase.
Too late to turn and run – so best put on your bravest face.
And the puppet masters laugh,
watching their tired puppets burn.
The meek seeking their wrath,
the lowliest worm’s about to turn.
too late – don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Too late – don’t say I didn’t say.
Too late – to make things better.
Too late – to save the day.
Divide et impera – guerilla warfare decimates the foe.
Distract you from their actions and maintain their status quo.
Like a master magician you can’t help diverting your eyes.
Wrapped up in a thin-veneer the promised dream covered their lies.
A wedge of black swans landing simultaneously in the West.
Streets and cities razed as the innocent protest.
The clever and the crooked have long left the battle zones.
And the rest fighting it out, like hungry dogs over a bone.
©2.12.2014 Andrew Robert Chapman