No Time to Shoot the Poets

The Western World
is caught in a constant malleable spin
Obsessed in its bloody trail of stigmata
Like a confidence man
pats you on the back
while he rapes your sister
Reminds you of his money in the poor box
after he sets fire to your home

Among the maligned
stand welterweight citizens
that resist, swing against the strain
of folks without imagination or forethought
that chant the old parental credo
 “just cuz I say so”

One by one they pull back the curtain
on the ‘great and powerful Oz’
Like the little boy in another story
who shouted

“The emperor has no clothes on”

All too soon
the world sees its own nakedness
filtered through the chill of omission
deplete of golden rule

For in their hurry
to either sanctify, villainize, or hypnotize
there was no time to shoot the poets