Thoughts come sometimes, like a little
dog yapping on the periphery of
consciousness, nagging, needling.
And sometimes like a handful
of sand tossed into a mechanism
of gears, grinding, insistent.
There is darkness on the horizon
brought on by madmen in laboratories
mixing potions of control,
Dark towers rise in the distance
as armies march against their own
people, black flags waving.
No more rubber bullets and mace.
The ammunition is copper and steel.
The dogs of war howl for blood
and people scream as their
rights and freedoms are taken
like an animal sucking
marrow from a bone.
Sometimes thoughts, brought
on by reality, are dark.