Ideals
What new form of madness is this?
Father, his dark hands burning,
Face fierce and snorting soot,
Deals his psychotic Dracula dreams,
And beneath his pious mane, lies
Isaac, my young brother, weeping, writhing
And cradled in his murderous arms, lies
Isaac, a suffering child, screaming, dying.
This; the defeat of the ideals I held when still young,
A generous spirit slit in the spit avaricious sea,
The still carcass of lost compassion, spilt
Within the barren pit of a spit spiteful land,
Like red and black,
A frail mountain butterfly,
Glued to the melting tarmac road in summer,
The steam-roller fast approaching.
