crass

A waking dream filled with
the terrifying noise
of boots in the dark.

That's the way the world goes round

The distorted voices,
alive with the primitive madness,
the sense of crass victory,
howling proximity.

Torturers must have their way,
the illusion of progress.

Propelled fears, pulsating
in the once-pristine
halls of the State,
which now flaunts its fiery fangs.

Everyone convinced,
that's what they want.