I find myself at a loss again.
Unable to explain the news
nor how they choose which tender meat
the wolf pursues, and which fat hind just passes by
skirting the eye of the ravenous pack.
Immune to attack.
Nor why we look the other way
from some crimes?
Why sometimes we all agree not to see the victims’ lives,
the cruelty that cuts like knives,
while another day, another face is printed widely
pride of place.
And who decides? Who guides the pack?
Someone hidden at the back, with hoarded treasure to defend,
who acts the friend? Skilled to measure out support
for those who lead the hunt, yet never short
of the distracting stunt. Who crowns the kings?
Who pulls the strings?
These wolves don’t seem to hunt to kill
but nip, chase, harry, bite until their victims lose their fight
or lose the will to live and give up
Stunned that life could be so cruel.
And who’s the fool?
Those who believe? He who deceives?
Or hobnobbing lordlings who seek to appease
Squabbling, vying, trying to please the one who crowns the puppet-king
Blindly choosing to ignore their history played out before.
Their fate, as always, to fall to the pack
Displaced by another who stands at the back.