Threads of Wispy Air

On threads of wispy air, in breathy undertones of political wind, I can hear the quiet catastrophe, the quiet ruination of our commonwealth. I can hear the sleepy madness, turned avalanche between my ears. I can hear the quiet catastrophe, the whispered words of terrorists, guttural phrases taunted as political incorrectness, flaunted vacuous nihilism fomenting insurrectionism, the quiet convulsion of our self-rule. I can hear the sullen invocation, turned torrent within my mental models. On threads of wary air, in stealthily vengeful murmurs of pretenders, I can hear the casual, softly spoken demise of justice, the grim sabotage of governance by principle, and with it, the slow dripping blood of all those who died, all those long forgotten. The fading ink on parchments spelled out ideals never attained or practiced in a nation’s history of enslavement and genocide. Yet can the people’s ambit even begin without the enshrinement of these principles for all? I can hear the quiet catastrophe, the reckless, feckless conmen concocting hallucinogens. Conspiracy contagions so easily playing upon, confirming the jaundiced eyes, so easily validating the invectives of the addicted. On threads of wispy air, in breathy undertones of political wind, I can hear the quiet catastrophe. Are you listening?