Muddled Voices

The procession of a lie

Through the democratic process

Or an illusion

Playing democracy

With demigods

Who don't know how to share

But, ignoring this

The system seems sound

We raise out ballots

Cast our votes

Mutter out concerns

A voiceless theocracy

That fails to cry foul

But most faithfully mutters it

With quiet polite inquiries

As to the state of the World

Or if we will have a World

At all

Come next winter.

Nonetheless

There is something

Tirelessly comforting

To be found by blind belief

In such an institution.