Under the boot

 

Hate arrives

like bad tides

on a storm surge.

A purge of hope,

as those toxic

waters rise.

The hate lies

not in those on boats,

but the disillusioned inhabitants 

of this island cesspit.

 

Can you hear the jack boots marching?

And are you okay with that?

 

Fascist right barking hate

over a dissolutioned fractured state,

the weakened left, aching and bereft,

at the breaking waves.

 

As peace flows away

in the wake of frothing rage,

dissolved hope is left to feed

a growing seething inside,

but all we are getting are scraps,

and the last remnants of optimism

flows over the gates.

 

Does it make it better for you,

this deluded view?

Is your life better

if everyone else falls

under the boot?

 

Don’t you realise that

you will be next

to be trodden down?

 

From behind your picket fence

can you hear those hateful rants?

Marching chants, as the rage rises

at anyone that doesn’t

mirror your own face.

Do you stand scared, or do you

wear your teeth bared at anyone

that looks different to you?

And as the country falls

deeper into shit and the blame shifts,

those who cheer for this

will be next in the target sights.

 

For hate is never satisfied.

and those boots

will march over your rights.