Maculation

The world is hemorrh-raging--
Dark spots rise to the mottled surface;
Desperation is a fog that rolls across the water,
Obliterating logic with the stench of paranoia.
The saner souls are left to drift . . .
How many days will pass till they
Reach landfall, shelter, and sustenance
Among the violent, viscous waves?
How many rescue boats will capsize?
They hunt for beacons, but light is scarce;
They may not ever find the way.

And deep within the brackish deep,
A monster lurks, fed by denial,
Self-doubt, and indecision.
It swallows anything that moves,
That shows a gleam of independent thought.
It causes fear, but is itself fear's victim.
It propagates a raft of lies,
A halo-swarm of lethal barbs,
A surge of needle-nosed torpedoes;
They strike their targets haphazardly,
Sparing few.
The brute is its own grim enemy.