How in a so-called modern country is a baby found dead in her mother’s arms
Choked of clean air in the corridor, as the blaze devastates your domain
Cyanide veins and a stillborn, a casket two-hundred feet high
They are woken to flee but better left asleep
Now they die panicked and screaming in a tomb
You call it an eyesore? What of charred and blackened skin?
What of bodies strewn round the tower, riddled with trauma and broken bone?
The flame tears through the outskirts, your gleaming plastic facade
A conflagration of timber and the flesh of undesirables
How do your investments look these days?

Sociopaths and charnel scavengers, a coven of leeches feeding on decay
Years of greed and complacency conspire, efforts to hide those on which they prey
The husk still casts a shadow, its ashes sicken the air
Hold a torch to the leech and its gorged body bursts, the others scatter in fear

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