Pantomime

The wind cuts like a stiletto, the flowers are starting to bloom

the soldiers lay down the dying, a daughter shoots up in her room

A letter arrives for the lonely, the wind whistles cold through the trees

A prophet yells “don’t fall for the phoney, they’ll steal your memories.”

I recline my ear to the music, the rhythm, the beat, the rhyme,

as I try and weigh the gravity of this weeping Pantomime.

The warehouses and stores lay empty, there are barricades nailed to the doors

friends are making glances, staring silently at walls.

There are broken hearts that love but still alive to teach,

there are rumblings in the street that it’s all just out of reach

The phone rings after midnight, the caller pleads “please absolve me of my crime”

“Not yet,” comes the answer “all the while we’re in this Pantomime.”

There’s a slick haired operator, reading from a list

he’s standing at his platform, with a snake above his fist

He’s reading a proclamation, saying “do exactly as I say.”

He makes a promise he knows he cannot keep and then he walks away.

I wonder if anyone notices, as he swivels on a dime

and murmur to myself about this drama filled, dark, sour, confected Pantomime.

The sun is rising, it’s running late, as shadows fall on bones

it goes dark for a minute, it stalls for time, no one answers phones

The journalists want some answers, as to the when, the how, the why

A man in a long black coat steps forward and says, “the minute you’re born you’re old enough to die.”

A friend calls me, concerned, he says he’s getting nowhere, down in this dirt and grime

I tell him not to worry, we’re all in this together, in this post-modern Pantomime.

There are people who talk in mellowed tones, as if there’s a secret they need to hide

While others scream there’s nothing wrong, we’ve got God here on our side.

The student, immigrant, the widowed bride, ponder as they stand in line for soup,

they request that someone contact God, to see if he favours any group.

The news screeds contain the same old thing, the verbiage for the time

while the weather closes in again on the same old Pantomime.