Something Isn'T Right
A chorus
of raw throats
rasp out warnings
then quieten, leaving
an edgy silence twitching
on the lips of a morning
or riding the ticker
moving across the bottom
of a television screen.
Something isn't right.
There's an unease
that seems to be
leaking out of lesions
in the carnage to come,
a slow festering
as if all life was waiting
for a finger
to squeeze the trigger
of a loaded gun.
And yet
good people
go about their lives
as they normally do,
saying their prayers,
helpless, riled or for some,
not wishing to care,
though somewhere,
hidden in a hollow
at the back of a head,
a dark is stirring
from its sleep,
getting ready to rise
from its bed. Elsewhere,
across a nation,
more and more screams
become stuck
in the throats of the dead.
Something isn't right.
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