The Plot

We are all part of the plot.
You, there, can be Colonel Mustard.
I will carry the candle stick.
(As I did once in the
dense rubrics of Catholicism.)
We all are related to Torquemada.
By blood.

Thou shalt not kill.
How prosaic.
But, mere life is nothing compared
To centuries of culture.
What They want is a giant
Pablum of a World.

They, I am talking about They.
The grey men behind the fireworks.
The ones whose bank accounts
end with exponents.
They are so confident that They
will triumph in the end.
Until they fall. Ha! Kabuki at its best.
Like a Nixon or a Faust.

How pitiful these stricken mites.
Gangling on for our amusement.
Court applause, an op-ed piece.
While the real Power
Surges away from them
Like a Shuttle in the dawn.

We tail after.
Contrails of detritus.
Cursing our allegiance.
Mere mist.