Of raucous, baying mobs

Sickness splits the land
and grips the eager;
powers up the all-expectant,
coiled and ready –
heady with psychosis,
loses latency.

So waking to their call,
enlists the sheep
and keeps the dumb
enthralled;

bids clarions to sing their path
as light absenting
from an unrelenting dark;

begets misguided prophets
seeking self-regard and carrion
with shares and calling cards.

The raucous, baying mobs
of Britain’s isles, with putrid voice
lift up as pryoclasts of toxic resin;
all at once cacophonous in heat
and straining from the common
lanes and finest streets, do crack
the hairline fractures open;
thicken up the air with words
of biting hate and clichéd phrases;
all Time’s labels are unleashed –

and thus it is
they must be swallowed.
What fragility! How easily
is unity so hollowed!