when they closed the borders
and joined in the rejoicing.
No more was your homeland
invaded by those others
you had come to despise.
You and your brethren
had room to breathe,
free at last from
the flooding masses.
Shoulder to shoulder,
crowded together like before.
the skin you rub and bruise,
is the now colour of your own.
All the same, huddled so close,
you bruise and you bleed
and find that not all matching skin
has the same flesh beneath.
The disease of difference still oppresses you.
So, you have made a prison for yourself
with a corner in it that is yours alone,
grey and pointed, full of bitterness.
Day after terrible day, you cower in your rage.
© BH, 2025
The point is, after all the discriminating and separating, those who desire it may come to realise that we are all different. Difference is what makes us individual and those who want to place their individuality above everyone else’s are painting themselves into a corner. The disease of difference is in the blood, underneath skins of every shade. Except it’s only a disease of diseased minds.
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