Stream of consciousness dream poem

I dreamt I was a photojournalist in a time of rising tension. The weather went from sun in park to hail. People scratched themselves with swastikas and wore secret russian signs, and yet it was a liberal government who were hanging us out to dry.
Closing down the camera shops and Russian owned caf├ęs with a promise of more space in which to live. Yet these storefront were bricked up and our cameras could not get fixed, while whispers told us Merkel would halp us to survive.
Where did those whispers come from, I asked myself later, was that evictor one of Merkel’s men for true? And should I use my elite connection to buy more camera equipment, or tattoo my face and seduce fascists like my colleagues decide to do.

And as I woke and write these lines I see the parallels, we work in a world where nothings as it seems, and everybody is scared, lashing out in different ways, and few have the courage to dare to act to avoid more of these bad dreams

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