Painting a futile future picture: A poem 

There may be no aimless wanderer at the traffic lights 

But someone, somewhere just loses the vector of his sights 

Rage snaps, and is inflammable like a thin nylon thread 

And somebody’s outburst can strike terror in your bed 

A stabbing episode in the city results in scores of victims 

The victims’ kin are left disillusioned at the sorry system 

The police department, currently, is investigating the scene 

The timebombs of insanity keep shattering civilisation’s spleen 

There’s an allegro of action, but a late key to the heavy door 

There are ironies on the streets; the ironing can’t beat a furrow 

We can’t have congeniality with waste, that’s too bitter to taste 

Yet, the violence starts from the top as much as from the base 

At a rumbustious school 

where students want to be cool 

A child is painting a picture 

a futile prognosis for the future