With words, their weapons sharp, they challenge truth
they let us breathe the brimstone fumes (their views)
they pick the facts apart, misusing youth-
full energy, they poison food and news.
And slowly we are changing, slip, transform
our souls, their scripted virus poison our veins.
I hear my voice repeating hate, the storm
of practiced fiction, brushstrokes deep with blame.
But if I take a walk, expand my lungs with air
I forget their news, a path alone for nature’s flair.
It’s been a long while since I did a Sunday Whirl, but this week I make an effort, with this little decastich.
October 18, 2015