They Said They Didn't See Color

Black hands and blacker hearts,
Isn't that always how the trouble starts,
When the few above,
Govern the many below,
And olive branch toting doves,
Flee in droves,
Silence the mind,
The heart is talking,
Logic's lagging behind,
Because the fanatics are gawking,
At the fire on his tongue,
That dances as he speaks,
Flint striking the lungs,
Against the matches in his teeth,
"Die a lonely death",
All who pray,
Your faith reeks of Macbeth,
So easy to betray,
Caution with your fever,
You're likely to burn up,
With your flammable cadaver,
And the pitch lining your gut,
My disjointed sense of anger,
At all who oppose,
The fragile sense of order,
That no one seems to know.