A Molehill for a Penny

Between the here and now
the solace has given over to screeching.
Arching an eyebrow
a sardonic plague
infiltrates the teeming beasts
that darken stairwells and sidewalks.

Fear is on their tongues
and hatred billows their skirts
the belching mouth
of barely repressed self-disgust.

We are all soldiers
in makeshift uniforms
following a trend.
Stepping off cliffs, ledges
we look back
a pillar of salt
for regret.

This is how mountains are made.