A discovery times ago,
Of spells and hats, sticks and stones,
Scorched earth (and flesh) charred black the snow,
As bones were broke for mud thrown.

Civilised though we reclaimed us - just.
Yeast left to bread, until proven at least.
Yet the hands of many pluck stitches to crust.

Today trials echo of the years,
Whence witch blood spilt pure as tears,
Whilst callous crocodiles weep and crow,
With their fifteen in-line to Show.

From high above, we see streets stained;
Streams of modern life smeared lame
And stunted by screens which sneer.

Hovering, seconds we share - engage with
Even - Passive passengers hurtling toward
Destinations shared and (somewhat) known.

Talk turns to it. The state of it. What
It means. Where we are headed. And as I
Speak silently, the mirror mists.

We trudge barn-bound,
                  To find appalling sites
          Of vagrant shrouds.

                     Soon though we stumble,
Among vain citadels
         of stubborn intent;
                          Self-confined to Hells

                Of preservative pride
                                      And tribal tutelage.
All wishing to hide

In plain sight from those
Who threaten impingement
                              On such hallowed ground.
               Suspicion grows.

                     Just right of us, we are unable
     To unsee the scene which unfolds
                                   As monster unveilled,

               Appearing no more or less
Unfeeling or inhumane
As you or I,  turns and
                                    Refuses to entertain

    Even such a concept as to
                          Engage and conform.
           We though know our duty through.

Years of prodded incentives
     And dictated routine. Captive
         We stand and welcome the bolt,
              Simply hoping its passage is clean.