They still come,

they still knock on the door ,

they will forever kick at the door

they come for the disabled

because now we are the softest target,

not realising that we are all the victims

of any sort of infirmity,

but soon they will come for you

and we will not be able to speak for you,

your crime, the worry in your head

and the flowering nagging and revelation

that all is not right, all is not well,

for they come for the Muslim woman next door,

they come for her for she worries them,

they come for the poet over the road,

they come for him for he worries them,

they come for the spiky haired punk,

they come for her for she worries them,

they come for the investigator

and they shoot her first,

but not till she has refused to give up her secrets

until they arrested her father

for once voting against their wishes,

he worried them…

they will come for the thoughtful

the kind, the generous, the weary, the ones who smile

pleasantly, they will come for the dying, the sick,

the homeless, the compassionate, the beautiful

of soul, the anti-uniform, the ones that refuse

to conform, those that understand their hate

and try to warn others…

I cannot speak for you for they have me dead already

and I weep

for I have never felt before the fear in my own country

that nobody will speak up at all, that they

the ragged of thought, of dedication to a cause

of brutality, have stirred up their

hornet’s nest once more.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016