under the soft clouds of a winter storm
you carry the armful of folders to the
spreading anarchy of wind from all quarters
the glowing orb that demands worship
and the passing seconds that
never return even after a search light
finds every little crack in the logic of night time
dreams find us naked in a conference but
hesitation when we wake up fully clothed
and explain the nature of circumstance
looks form from above modern justice
reasons that convince nobody
the bitter jostling at the surface
who is to feel the bite of crisis
as it closes its jaws?
Who is going to fight the treason
of the faceless?