Spilt blood seeps into the cracks of the earth
Floating gently down like a plucked feather
Deeper and deeper into the black soil
Which turns purple, slowly, like a bruised fruit
Carrying its infected blood to the core.
Festering roots grow, a tumour,
Which rises and bursts like an overripe fig
Into the open landscape below which it swelled.
Pink leaves hang from its twisted branches
And casts a black shadow submerging us all
Poem about fascism
