the naiveté of the narrative

the word on the street is that there is a riot.

the bane of the narrative 

is the one flashlight 

in an otherwise darken room.

flashlight in hand is gold in the pocket.

the movie then is the metaphor set on fire.

everybody is watching that screen,

not knowing the antics of the light holder.

the position of the persuasion 

is then hand held.

sidedness has it cast of characters.

there is an elevated pretense presumed.

real issues are abated.

circumstance is in override.

the pretense of order 

is the pragmatic demand.

the deeper dialogue is in disregard.

situational does not address the heart 

of the matter.

seething unsaidness has actions

but still no audience for voice.

the mastermind of politics and money 

are in supercede to nullify.

bemoaning comes on 

in incomplete sentences.

the audience is presented 

with verdict implications

the drama has the essence of futility 

buried away.

the act-out pervades rather than conveys,

as if the reveal 

would become evident and known,

as suppression is oppression over time.

agendas are mind-fills 

that leverage and defeat.

mindsets hold tight 

to their positions of control.

they identify themselves as rightfully so.

they are meaningful to themselves as means.

all others are characters cast in their play.

the weave of their narratives 

tightens its grip.

few are the drivers 

while many are those driven.

few make that narrative 

while many crouch to listen.

eventually all listeners 

become unwilling as participants,

as then we have a community 

of circumstance,

for those who have 

and those who have not.

the narrative is so blatantly issue-bound

where a raised voice 

has political overtones though unspoken,

while others are reduced to mutterings,

for as to be in the choir that never can sing.

for each soloists 

with no vocal lines to present,

what choir like that is not in revolution? 

there are song books to burn.

there are robes to be tossed.

the narrative has lost is mesmerizing way.

no choir can sing these superficials,

when the heart of the matter 

has no voice of its own . . .