When did all this begin?

This violent reaction to inflammatory writing.
This insensitive knee jerking.

When did all this begin?

This intolerance. This bigotry.
This utter lack of respect for a
freedom called expression.

When did all this begin?

This chucking of brickbat missiles
where bouquets were actually de rigeur.

When did all this begin?

This drawing of lines.
This crossing of them.

To the dark side of indecency.
To the muddy depths of inappropriatism.

There’s a painter hiding in the canvas of London. Cowering.
A knighted muse whose wife has left him with a baby death threat. A fatwa.
A princess who stays awake most Arabian nights.
And an author who prays five times a day, religiously.
Asking only for the freedom to give her feelings the vent of a voiced thought.

When did all this begin?

Perhaps it began when those who wanted to speak, forgot to listen.
Perhaps it began when those who had a view, turned blind to others.
Perhaps it began when those who lost a cause, found a heart to wear on bloodied sleeves.

When frustration was ministered to by
the masturbatory ejaculation of misplaced angst.
When satiation was but a sigh of relief
that at last, a distraction was at hand.
However demeaning. However debilitatory.

There is a cure for this disease.
And it is us.