Discussion Group Messiahs (or I Know the Waylaid)

by kholinar

Wound about like phone cords,
Calling for a change
“Let’s hang the revolution
that broke the older backs,”
and stifle every thought.

Torn about like plastic bags,
that carried all our coins
They buy their retribution
in masks of vigilance.
“You dare to doubt our goals?”

Bent about like cordons,
secure in their position,
They try malum in se.
“Taboo,” the cry, “such judgments!
(of) hungry violation.”

Spun about like wind-socks,
clutching every handbill
to grasp a quick solution
for every passing grief
“Don’t call me a fascist…”