Tyler R. Martin
While all around the protests scream,
Wood signs swing in thick fog of mace,
A murderous mob’s collective fangs gleam
Upon a single, mangled, stupid face.
Fires ravage a business built by many a year,
In minutes eaten, blackened from within;
In one Body, no single Cell harbors fear,
Nor does a single Cell bear collective sin.
No one Cell gathers any guilt from the smoke,
Just a collective Body warmed happily by heat,
While pests within structures flee and choke
And amass upon the carnage of the street.
In tribal masks the Cells upon pavement dance
Upon these streets in a primitive display.
Around the fires their Body’s Shaman prance
As the infidel contagion look on in stark dismay.