on a report in the news,

came that murdoch and hall are getting a divorce,

is this true, do I care?

it’s none of my business they share,

but murdoch’s lost wife near the end of his life,

is quite sad, if I didn’t see what he’s been doing.

is it callous of me to know my tulpas are free,

out there destroying the power that tries to manipulate me.

in the screams of the night,

the shadows of murder and spite,

the djinn creep in on him.

his wives, then his power, all floppy and sour.

there is time to watch as the mogul gets tossed,

from within the next few moments it starts to begin.

the daily fail of the world, promoting failure as a pearls,

just as it did in the 1930s.

news of the world to you all, scum press of the gutter,

you think you’re immune to the out-of-control fascist nutters!

sit in your offices at night, with no light,

your demise is quite clear sitting at the desk over there,

a strange silhouetted man with no eyes.

he stares from his voids as glasgow smiles with a voice,

whispering bittersweet horrors in the dreams of the awakening.

in terror, find wisdom, it’s all you have now,

accept that what is sown always ripens.

if what you condone is cruel and elected,

you too will see the phantoms of menace.

to those that wish for sensible blue, you will need to go reddish or yellowish in hue.

© Copyright 2022 InkeyString

a short and bittersweet note, aka short and sour