It must be a disease: A subtle stink that clings to me, growing more insidious like foreign mould with the ripening of tone and shade. Blooming in the presence of misappropriated wealth an insistent stench gnawing at the conscience a sobering and enraging guilt sired by magic beyond my control.
It must be a plague: A life threatening affliction An army of evils congregating at the tips of my fingers A nest of demons only exorcised by the spilling of blood, The religious dehumanising and sacrificing to gods of gold, glamour and grace And the massacre of a nation on the Alter of privilege.
A.C. Shabangu 