Rather Sad

To seek an explanation wastes
energies too profligate to contemplate,
best to wait and see what time
will bring – it gives a space for
reason’s beckoning, eases confrontation
and abates the raging dissonance

A gang of zealots, unless you see
hoodlums busy creating mayhem,
whose obtuse behaviour borders
gaucheness so naive it’s quaint,
all of whom stuff up things that
were going okay

While crude and stupid it airs
true sadness, those who play
in the ranks believe they are actually
Saints bringing fabulous gifts –
which were never theirs
to give free in the first place;

the cost is a slew of dated homilies,
ruthless invective and contumacious deceit
spewed in a pit of burgeoning iniquity –
synonymous with raw manure.
All who play the game are equally
shamed for sure. Rather sad, isn’t it?
© 23 June 2008, I. D. Carswell