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.