The
broken bead of crimson blob,
Recites
a twisted tale of a mob,
Of
chaos, of dissent, of contempt and malice,
Of
poison served in a covetous chalice.
They
trust their thought in matters not bare,
Citing
a title or an accolade not rare,
Heads
in the clouds, trampling the ground,
Walk
they do, with stupidity profound.
They
scream, they cry, of wars very wry,
Hailing
a slayer who painted the sky-
In
red, in horror, in repulsion and dismay,
Dispirited
are the kin of those who were slayed.
Entitled
they feel, certain as a rock,
Imbecilic
minds that gather amok,
Mocked
are the crusades of the selfless guardians,
Those
protectors of the land, those carriers of order.
They
cry foul, when logic prevails,
Leaving
no room for truth or details,
Spewing
disarray like venomous snakes,
Are
the others who join with vested stakes.
They
accomplish their goal at the cost of the land,
For
money, for power, for the thrills so bland,
Creating
anarchy, dividing households,
Fare
they do like roofs and moulds.
I
stand far and watch alarmed,
Lost, alone and feeling disarmed,
With
the mighty fools skittering about,
What
can I do but pen this with a doubt.
aeroyogi
18-2-2016
