A Majority

Crumple bits of dead paper

Your ticks are arcane scrawlings

Abraided by the sands of time

Your crosses fireflies trying

To outshine the sun

A meeting, a raising of voice

But a fleeting kiss of time

An unkempt whisper

A point of order

Diffuse chaotic

Season words with sage and thyme

Yes dear sir you have the choice

Tick yes for no and no for pass

We’ll swap directions if you ask

Finger to your pocket BANG

Rubber gloved, plastic loved

You shatter at the birthing pangs

Our doors are always open

Come in, go out

Just leave the light on

For those who care.