Extraordinary Times

If all the while the world would weave our dreams
Of dust and bone and blood and stone, on show
For all to see as entertainment, seems
Not quite the sleep of times that I would know.
For all: the cry to arms they'd have us hear.
For oil, revenge and greed is what we feel
To be the truth behind the just veneer,
The sneering, crushing, grinding armoured wheel.
From rage and hate against God's Own machine,
To waterboards and razor blades and pain.
Rendition, euphemism, righteous spleen
With hoods and suits annihilate each grain.
From tumbling towers to the tarnished sand
Much safer, now, we are, we understand.