Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The coming storm

The coming storm
hides the sun
though it  may still shine
in the beyond.

Mistrust becomes argument;
become rows
become skirmishes
become battles
becomes war,
as the clouds
of disillusionment
build their battlements
in the streets of Fergusson.

Looted of the high ground,
plundered and raped
by stormtrooping opportunists,
the abandoned souls,
hands in the air
shout ‘don’t shoot’
for we are the poor.

We are the poor,
we are not black,
we are the colourless poor
with no axes to grind.

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