Poem // The Blot

The Blot

I wish the blot was in me and not in my friend, but life is what it is, unfair and mean to the kindest person I’ve ever seen. Where humans are concerned life is best suited to liars and haters, or so it seems, with so many lying and hating and winning with that. It’s only the few who don’t follow the pack, and of those most of them get stabbed in the back or sidelined or stonewalled. Civilisation is stalled in its tracks. Some won’t take flak and say they act for everyone but in truth only for themselves, while closing their doors and nations to the lost. What are they all afraid of, what is the cost? I confess I know not. I only know it’s hard to hold onto hope in your heart when all around you is turning to blood, and black; when people would rather go on the attack than feed those in need. They bury the dream and curdle the cream, burn their witches while digging great ditches and putting up walls so their deeds go unseen by the world at large. Oh, give me a barge and I would sail away in hope of returning one future day. I am sad beyond measure for my friend and myself and the world that still spins but finds it ever more difficult to breathe. I give in.

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