When elections loom, familiar shapes
become more threatening,
the masks we wear more obvious,
and demons prowl the streets
in search of food for damaged souls;
the mouth of hell yawns wider,
and the roots of all our troubles
come springing to the surface,
reaching out to trip us up.
Familiar landmarks disappear:
fogged in -- or have they left for good?
If we can't see them,
can we assume they're there?
Walk carefully amid the lies;
ignore the beckoning darkness
and superstitious whisperings...
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