Teeming

Nations fall at the feet of tiny men, the superheroes we promote
to take the stage and wield the reins of a wild horse—the mustangs,
how it must have been to run free like in Spirit—that spooks
at the slightest disturbance on the gravel road, asking of its owner
a firm rejection of their false delusion that danger is afoot,
that one is right to say nothing is alright, no one shall be spared.

Lingering overlaps the milestones, unfolding anniversaries and holy days.
Generation of new information, gathering of mystic intuitions.

Intractable are problems, til the magic of the professional lying class—
I once thought they were useless, back when I thought humans made
their own destiny and any modicum of (common) sense—kicks in on cue, leading
the People into a frenzy, and inspired Crusade into the great unknown.

The problem with the Voldemorts of the past century—picture one you hate
and assume I speak of him and not the one you worship—is that they always
kill too many useful idiots. America, the model state of Machiavellians,
has long made peace with the true nature of a society of fools (by, of, for),
making middle managers their bread and butter, substrate for human jam.