Stricken Truth Poem by Patricia Bobak

Toady creatures as prophesised, when created.
Thinking who to fight with, to once more feel elated.
Is it not us, slashing each other’s life roots for wealth?
Is it him, wondering if he was the one who built stealth?
Work together would mean nuts stuck in their shells.
People not seeing masterminds’ hearts.
Doctors replacing chatter with charts.
Is it not us, trampling over glints of people?
Is it him, looking at us from an eminent steeple?
Work together would be like a perpetual rain.
Flawed buffoons, laughing at peoples’ faces.
Letting curiosity reach mystically strange places.
Is it not us, preparing for the gallows at eve?
Is it him, knowing everyone will eventually grieve?
Work together would form a note ‘buy a sinking boat’.
Belated ants living city-life vision.
Slamming a smile with a big incision.
Is it not us, drinking Dr. Jekyll’s potion unseen?
Is it him, hastening the happy ending scene?
Work together would weaver sins on a subtle cloth.
Flimsy effigy of those who grumble.
Fumbling through a speech with a rumble.
Is it not us, grasping for wealth and a mammon?
Is it him, watching us slaughter the last gammon?
Work together would never exist.
Here we are, waiting for the thrilling morrow.
Ignoring fate’s arrow will hold a mourning sorrow.
Is it not us, scrambling for chums’ attention?
Is it him, looping our mind over another dimension?
Work together would lead to Apocalypse.