Grayscale Poem by Richard Brekar

The din swells ever louder across the desert of our minds
Confusing is this effigy, We've built up over time
All hands for the masters
All minds for their show
Silent is the grief of the wakeful soul

White, The husk that hides them
Darker with each day
Word by word we falter by visions of their play
In line!
Hoofed, The feet that lead them
Never dare to stray
Lonely is this infant that is agent, yet obeys

The cur now cry for murder of the most emphatic sign
Lest chaos may be born from his derelict colored shrines
All hands for our masters
All minds back in tow
A whim of deviation is swallowed in its glow