The Vigilante Fights a lone battle

By Mairo-the-Poet:

The sun dreams up a blood moon
On a solitary veld.
We made laughter roll on lips of ghouls
Teeth bared at the innocent, sinister!
Our victims are washed in blood, hear us banter
No shackles on our feet, no cuffs on our hands
So we kill and kill again and kill
As society slumbers on.
The vigilante takes up his mantle
Begins to dismantle our art with his artistry
Only the common crowd sings his battle lore
While the authorities hot on his heels shackle him
Till we corner him and mangle his body
Then we kill and kill again and kill
As society yawns an indifferent tone.
The vigilante sleeps alone in his tomb
As we cook up a storm.

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Mairo-the-Poet
Born and bred in Zimbabwe. Currently living and working in South Africa. A primary school teacher by profession but a Performance Poet by design. My father was a wood-carver, so I fancy myself a word-carver. To me poetry is life, therefore the purpose of art is to comment on the human condition.
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