Too slow to save the
dead, our leaders
are inept and cruel.
While they memorized the digits
of factoid findings
we can't forget the
violent still lifes of devestation.
Still, they will move like
heroes in the camera's lens,
dashing to save the poor blue dead.
While 10 million more flail their
aging arms against the lash of gravel
the swell of glass.
The shadow stands silent
in the sprawling distance.
He is the prophet of idle hands,
the conductor of self destruction.
He is the shadow of Control.
The unyielding silhouette
of greed soaked Executives.
The shadow on the bring needs no
cloth of mystery.
He is my own capacity for horror,
my drowning days of sloth,
and my forgetful unknowing inability
to learn.

at the prophet.