Colin F. Jones

THE INNER FOE

Hollow boulders gauntlet the meandering way,
Rubbing together; grinding and gross,
Stained rank, from the toxics protecting the flowers,
Unfolding In the shade of the sunlit cross.
They feed where weakness erodes affluence,
Undermining the foundations of resilient hope,
Distorting the truth with dissent and intelligence,
Exaggerating declension and inability to cope.
They urge murder among those deliberately riled,
Lead the charge from the rear relatively secure,
From repercussions for those in consequence defiled,
By inciting conflict whilst condemning the war.
Right thinking might manage an occasional revival,
But still to be rich inspires the dissent of the poor.