The Zealot

Have you seen that man?
Stood plentifully bestrewn in crimson petals,
Within a garden of fresh corpses,
A crusader amongst broken innocents,
He’s a killer like any other,
But sanctioned by those lofty spires,
A good holy soldier,

In place of prayer,
He commits to flagellation,
Pain weaving betwixt discipline,
He hears voices in the dark,
They come from dusty books,
A tome that claims divinity,
A higher morality touted in its pages,

What began as a good and humble life,
Was dismantled piecemeal by fear and hate,
Xenophobia and bigotry written as commandments,
Seeing jihads in all directions,
Knives at the windows,
The sermons were twisted to command,
And so he strikes.

England

Three lions weep,
An English rose wilts,
Saint George hangs his head low,

Have we lost our way?
A lethargic populace and uncaring elite,
A blight of bigotry,

England is drunk upon past glories,
Like wines taken from distant lands,
At sabre point,

Empire is dead,
We are the ashes,
Soon to be scattered,

Our brothers of the Hills,
The Lochs,
The Isles,
And across the sea,
All creeds and ways of life,
All forsaken,

We are part of this world,
We do not hold thrones above it,
Humanity is our real flag,
Hubris has painted a sorry picture,
Something akin to a red cross.