Maelstroms in a Sea of Lies

For a score of years and four the same players in different uniforms scourge the Prophet’s children, their other selves, but reflected in garbled mirrors cleverly designed. Collateral damage, a pity, but death by drone leaves no bloody fingerprints or sullied conscience, not if obliging media recite the formulae correctly. Some escape, damn them, what a mess they make as bloodied and impoverished they invade our sacred space but perhaps a use for them we’ll find.

Whirlpools form a vortex sucking everything down a terrible spiral staircase below the crypts of Creation. Inverted funnels fueled by hate and rage on one sided buffet opposing waves of agony and despair. To the victor belong the spoils but they won’t be surrendered, the scripts all said we’d win. The facts are wrong, it’s just a dream and is morality relevant anyway? Perhaps not then, but it is now! The other side in guilty innocence perceives it’s won.

To arms, to arms, gather all we feckless. To arms, to arms, the ginger haired villain’s in our house. Our house damn it, not his. “Do as I say, not as I do” echoes back from infancy, or was it adolescence? We’re eloquent and he’s not, so, though we shout the same obscenities, we’re right and he and his despicables are wrong. Anyway, right or wrong, what’s the difference, it’s how we script the play that counts. And play we do and play we will and we won’t let him win.

The pawns are scattered everywhere, the chess board, broken on the floor, the grinning Queen inanely chortling, “we came, we saw, he died! The bishops huddle with the knights while the rooks gently snore by the doors. “The damned King’s escaped” someone whispers, “best not let her know. Arrange the pawns in ordered rows, hide everything and shout, shout a lot and very stridently” the Queen’s Heralds call. And shout they do and very loudly too.

Mirrors, mirrors everywhere, cracked like crinoline, lace-like, distortive, just the way we need them. What a horror to be unfairly forced to face realities we’ve created. There’s strength in numbers and truth is relative anyway, and beauty in the eye of the beholder, and behold the massive crowds spontaneously shouting in unison that it’s not our fault, and though their crowds also shout, they’re so much smaller, we counted them. Yay!! We win. The only fault is there’s.

Whirlpools form a vortex sucking everything down a terrible spiral staircase below the crypts of Creation. Inverted funnels fueled by hate and rage on one sided buffet opposing waves of agony and despair. From hidden corners billions of roaches, hopeful, watch. Their emperor, a dreamy gaze hidden in his very different face, wonders if finally, his Insects’ time has come … again. Patience, patience, that’s all it takes he whispers. And albeit awkwardly

He smiles his terrible smile. And waits.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2017; all rights reserved