Cave Paintings And Propaganda Poem by Paul Brookes

Seems like the madness doubles every day.
it hubbles, bubbles, toils and troubles
irrationality, lies and deceit, tsunamis of claim and counter claim.
rolling news steam rollers flattens fact, exudes deception.

so here we are at the cusp. that red raw tipping point.
see them plant the blame, those little seeds of anarchy,
is it we, us, them, the other?
believers and the doubters stand and glare
masked and unmasked, the gun toters and the scubs wearers
there eyes meeting in showers of shouts and silence.

the cave lies dark and silent, no innuendo
we spin inexorable to our end spinning threads of impossibility
here the drawings feint charcoal outlines
with fills of yellow and red ochre such true depictions soothe.
rocks are animate in the flickering light, deer and buffalo take flight.

outside truth, has died on lips of petty poisonous politicians.
all we have left are their buzz words, slogans and propaganda.
my muse has died as she slides in the muddy waters of cliche.

still the cool cave beckons, a rocky womb cool and comforting
surrounded by Neolithic frescoes of hunters and the hunted.
darkness envelops rocking me to a deep sense of false security.