Sheep

Chthonic and tenebrous, cavernous and dank.
Fetid, foreboding, pugnacious and acrid,
Dour odors billow up and waft away,
Entering with trepidation, scouring the surroundings,
Eyes darting in every direction.
The cold glower of the bugaboo,
Its vociferous ruckus, feet clamoring on the damp floor.
A grotesque wretch it slinks closer,
Brobdingnagian and ineffable in every means.
Staring into its glassy eyes, smelling its acrid breath,
Feeling the torrid air burn your skin.
It’s a beast, a demon, a creature of our worst fears…
Wild, untamed, sardonic and obdurate it stares.

Look closer and what do you see?
Its eyes! Its eyes are dancing in the gloomy dim light.
There in it’s mind you can see…
It’s the chichi tittle-tattle, the bland meaningless banter.
It’s that clique, those people, who can they be?
It’s that nefarious group that flouts their hauteur,
It’s their partners in crime, those unctuous seething fops.
There is that same bellwether, a sheep in human disguise,
With a ring around their neck, tolling the familiar knell.
That mordant bandog, that causes such tumult and turmoil,
And yet it’s a sort of silent dictatorship,
For the audience cowers in taciturn blasphemy.

They skulk through their thoughts from their bete noir,
Waiting for a vociferous raconteur; A bellwether of their own.
Their cavil towards cupidity falls silent at their feet.
They glare upwards with hopeless lackadaisical eyes,
Autodidacts and polyglots fall silent at the obvious umbrage.
Encumbered by this truculent fiasco,
Standing like sheep on the grass,
Disheveled and grotesque, looking upwards in stoic distress,
Not a tear is shed, not an angry word exchanged,
The day goes on, and another day, and another.
The world turns, nothing changes.
They’re stuck on mute, inactive, passive… Silent.