Not blind but sure blinding
blotting out everything
or just about
coming in the way of
its reason or tirade
Once locked onto an object -
a nation, a race,
a religion, a face
It can't unsee even the tiniest
of their follies
real or imagined
Most of all-
what it leaves in its wake
is least suspected of it
For it leaves the bearer
worse off than its target
What else could you expect
from an arrow as powerful and precise
and an archer as lousy
as the one wielding it?
How could it leave the hands that
hold and wield it
unsinged (of its flames)?
A trail of its soot leads
to its smouldering roots
again and again,
past generations, past states
ready to flower into a fire full-fledged
at moment's notice
Quite a few brethren and
quite few kin
it has to feed
- anger, disgust, irrationality
are just its usual favourite
The worst of its powers however
gets oft overlooked-
few things are there as addictive
as a breath inspired in hate
Few can resist its inebriating kick
and not look for ways
to seek more
with or without a reason
to indulge in this
opium of the weak
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