Backing the Wrong Horse - Another poem of warning

You backed the wrong horse,
and it might not make the finish line.
The poor thing runs out of control
rider tossed aside by a stumble
as he yanked the reins too late
to avoid a rather stupid muddle.

The horse is now pale
lathered in sweat of fear
knowing by actions taken inside
that noisy starting gate this race
that set it out of jockey's control
and lets it run amok down furlong's of track.

We talk not of horses here,
but barbarians played off against
one another like chessmen on board,
by fools who thought themselves puppetmasters
making their marionettes dance wildly
by pulling their silken strings of privilege.

One barbarian too close
the other holding your purse-strings tight,
and now you both find no room
left to make them dance about,
amid the wreckage you created
with their silly cavorting about.

Hear the katana being drawn out slow
and know the days will come again
when those who lived by Bushido's code
say enough is damned well enough,
and swing their blades about in rage,
over being pushed around.

Know the power of wealth catches
even those supposedly above it
as you see corruption around you,
or worse encourage it like your ally does,
and feel the noose of your own tying
cinch around your precious necks.

You thought yourselves the center
of the world, sitting in the 'Middle',
but arrogance at your seeming stability
has left you vulnerable to eastern arrows
that have not far to arc through sky
turning red with sun-borne flames.

Now I tell you of another horse,
metaphorical in nature, for sure,
that will falter before leaving its paddock
and pull up lame, needing put down,
after shying away from a rider
who sought to ride in peace, not war.

This horse is red in color,
smaller than its mind would think,
because it failed to see something
of the tangling strings which unravel slow
pointing out the puppetmasters
to the once unwitting crowd.

Your ally is a fool, you know it.
To tied up in his own criminal behavior
and your actions turn out too late
to save the puppet's dance
into your play of war and death,
as flames crawl towards your paddle.

Your ally tugged strings too hard
and now far puppet whirls about a web
of deceit and questionable actions
that already cast enough shadows on scenery
to let the audience know the end
will not be as planned one time.

And the near puppet, lifting arms
threatens to ignite the whole theater,
as uneasy neighbors awaken to the clamor
and a few turn in rage on those
who set the town afire
just to control a few more acres.

You know who you are,
or better, for I wish not to name
the fools and the puppets
unless forced to do so
to stop a wildfire of fools desire
from turning a jeweled orb into

a dying cinder that glows.

29Nov2017 -  A rather pissed off Dyfedd Rex, who understood the 108.3, but wants the North to go with it.