It is a cult of your own making,
A stricken frenzy led by fascination,
A mistake; I think not,
But a world of your own careful construction,
Walls built high, barricaded with locks,
A censored world flourishing in dysfunction,
Yours is a paradise paying for destruction.
Death by criticism and isolation,
A gift given as your prejudiced consolation,
Your heels click neatly as they pound the floor,
With frenzied opportunists shouting for more
And your pseudo-interest in them giving you a parasitic tour.
The stage is set – a sea of red,
People salivating for the cruel words you said,
Your mouth mimes the action of knowing intelligence
Whilst a vicious dictator takes over instead,
Casting your spell over the living dead.
Faces recoil in all the other places,
Nooks and crannies – the liberal spaces,
Tears of anger linger in their facial creases,
But hearts of resolve solidify behind love-torn faces,
More powerful than the dirty money
Lying in your corporate briefcases.