What is this?

What is this?  

What is this that ails us? 

This malady,

This malevolence,

Which infects us easily

When wounds laid bare

Become easy hosts

To societies ills,

This sickness sweeping

Disaffected youth, hotheads,

Pyrexial with adrenaline

Light bonfires, bonfires

That fan the flames of racism,

Burn bright the beacon,

The bloody beacon that

Lights the way to bigotry.

How easy

They succumb to stereotype,

The looters, the arsonists,

The bigot's fodder;

The bigots dream gifted,

Gifted by the very underclass

They wish to further

Marginalise.

Black, brown, white –

The underclass,

United by deprivation,

Divided by difference. 

Hooded they roam the streets;

Pack mentality

Supersedes rationality,

For rationality

Has no business here

As they scavenge

Like hungry primeval beasts

On looted goods

And feed on the

Adrenaline rush of anarchy.

Oh how this anarchy,

This pleasure

Of fleeting power

Runs fast through veins

Infecting systemically
The very body of
Our nation,

Its fever flares

In new hot spots

As hooded youth

Copycat, mimic

The initial opened wound

And light fires to their freedom,

Their awful new found freedom

Where death has become

Its awful victim.

Yet not all this underclass,

This nations poor of hope

Run riot

And watch instead,

In utter disbelief,

As seemingly abandoned
By enfeebled,
Directionless police

And the distant leaders

Of our troubled state, 

They attempt to

Comprehend

The incomprehensible. 

Soon the infection

Will be treated –

Yet the patient

Will not be cured. 

The virus will hide

Under its own hood,

An opportunist,

Watching, waiting

For a fresh new wound

On which to reek its

Destructive qualities,
The qualities of a sick society. 

It will come again.

Anna :o]