The waning distant call of the dark crow, echoes before the mounting internal thunder, pushing through the political and social mist offered upon the flickering deceptive pane of media's broken glass,

Eddies of foreseen disaster, ebb and flow, washing gathering debris through common streets and everyday lives, bringing cluttered confusion into the accepted delusion of comfort and safety constructed upon crumbling disorder and the incompetence of indifferent opulence,

Shots ring out from halls of education, together with glassy eyed swill on the rocks served across slick, wooden bars, the violent deadly ricochets bounce and strike as cascading, abusive, steel pin balls randomly hitting the private and public roads and paths which carry loved ones to destination or destiny, wrapped in the gaudy, glitter of temporary holiday cheer and traditional ceremonial passage,

Each one supporting a burden of overwhelming strife and hope that answers nothing but the added weight of long discarded promise and trust, as the clear eye of calm darkens this steady, looming shift in reality, the powers that be, rest upon a mighty hedge of laurels, taken from the struggling, effort and toil of those who buy their daily addictions,

This silent storm continually creeps toward critical mass, bearing down with unruly perfect aim upon that which ignores the strength of he’r truth, without malice nor warning all is swept clean to face a fresh new dawn . . .

©Bruce Larson*Moore