Where are their shadows,where is now their night?

Where is the artist who could unfold
The world like Graham Greene,the good,the bad
The sinful priest who saves a woman’s soul,
The dead, the lost,the starving and the mad?

The shivering menace that we felt but could not see.
Osama bin Laden shot while we sipped China tea.
No judge,no court,no jury,no tribunal.
No face,no body,death but not a funeral.

I see the graphs of chaos theory and the forms,
As butterflies’ wings shake,creating wilder storms.
I see the ellipses,circles and the squares.
They seem to hint at something not yet there.

In the forests of the Congo,secret agents hide,
Where Joseph Conrad thought his hero lost his mind.
The snakes of Eden curl around the trees.
Who can know what strange satanic gods they see?
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The Impressionist artists painted flowers filled with light,
Where are their shadows,where is now their night?
My impressions are of webs with too much geometry.
A world of email,text and failed economies.
Where are the silver moon,dark sky and wind-lashed trees?
Where is the world the magician’s eyes have seized?

I hear the government want to read my mail,
My blogs,my texts, my chats,all my details.
Will it help or hinder if I write in blanker verse?
Or if I make my poems and stories shorter and more terse