by Metta Jon Maslow

in the theater of futility,
agendas strive and
verbal sabers rattle,
a heated war of words
that foreshadows
the de facto war,
the mad drama
that waits in the wings.
partisans and
their understudies
stand by as
the curtain slowly rises
on the tragic comedy
of global politics.

as you like it—or not—
all the world’s a stage;
power brokers
and their puppets
are the actors,
reciting well-rehearsed lines
with contrived but
convincing gusto;
inflammatory invectives
intensify scripted ideologies,
broadcast in serial form.
competing visions clash,
assaulting the airwaves daily.
the call to arms bellows
recklessly in the wind,
crossing land and sea,
until all have heard;
the anxious masses respond,
debating the pros and cons
of each performance.

but this is no morality play,
just a timeless saga,
perhaps as old as
the human race itself.
although the plot is not new,
this is the newest production,
and until the last lines
have been spoken,
the outcome remains
a fearful mystery.

the world nervously waits
for the final act to begin.

© 2003 by Metta Jon Maslow