The Stealth of Great Misfortune

It comes slow, soft as rumour.

A susurration in the leaves

of documents perused

in quiet rooms in old buildings,

whilst what is made manifest

are the comforting, loud lies.

We choose,

a plebiscite of Hobsons

marking the spot

with a good outcome

as likely as winning spot the ball,

after we pin a tail

on yet another donkey.

And the back door

curtailment of freedoms

continues, we do not notice

the smoke and mirrors

dazzle whilst the silent

disaster looms.

The mountebanks force the ace

on the fools in the audience

and we are dealt discards,

or a singleton trump,

which will not win a trick

on polling day.