In this, the wide tumbling wake
of suffering’s ship,
there bobs the newsman,
with the machine gun smile,
and the net pot-stirrer,
whose manic guile
thrills to trigger and engage.
They have us beat our chests at dutiful pace,
while the wedge of woes they drive divides,
and turns both parted sides
to hate, and rage.
There is no respite
even in the velvet deeps of sleep
where, amid the churn of day-spun things,
we might yet coax the quiet cat come lay,
across our laps and, deep-vibrating,
purr our fears away.
Night-forest black, cautious, fey,
it gazes, curious, upon the fires,
and at the ghoulish dances of our kind,
then turns its head, and stalks away.
None sees it come or go, but it’s our fate
that all shall feel the void it leaves behind.
____________
(Photo by Denishan Joseph on Pexels.com)
The Rivendale Review 
Haunting, disquieting image Michael. I love the idea of sleep as a black cat that should lie purring across our laps, but instead, unnerved by our unnatural ways, turns tail and slinks away (I was imagining into the forest, but I realise you don’t actually say that. Power of the imagery I suppose).
It was the forest I imagined too, though, didn’t say so. Thank you, George. Much appreciated. 🙂👍
I’ve always admired those who have a way with straight narrative and can also delve into poetry very well. I like the kind of stream of consciousness flow of this poem.
Thank you. I do like the shorthand of poetry. This one came out of a monthly challenge at Visual Verse. Their images trigger the unconscious in unexpected ways.
A little unconscious triggering definitely can’t hurt. 🙂