We do not speak ill of the dead,
unless their story interests us.
A murderer,
or villain,
But why does that so intrigue us?
That within our nature we forever hide
kept to the side.
Cowed kept, but alive.
What is our basest instinct?
But animalistic rage?
Lest we, ourselves,
weaken be
strength against these waves.
So why then do we feel anger,
when pity is more apt?
Those who cave to hatred
lose self,
and ironed, caged.
Thou shalt not raise your hand.
Thou shalt not dissent.
Thou shalt not disagree.
Thou shalt kneel.
Maybe there is room for passions,
emerging tiny storms,
ill humours that control us,
unless we vent our scorn.