Following the recent London stabbings by a Muslim male, the topic of hatred, violence and murder have once again hit the headlines. The UK PM Boris Johnson opined publicly that men like Usman, who killed innocent Londoners, were a breed that had no chance of rehabilitation. That the British Justice system released someone deemed without the possibility of being rehabilitated points to serious errors of judgment. Releasing a known felon with a penchant of killing and following up with statements that his kind is not worthy of being rehabilitated is like admitting to caging a rabid dog but releasing him anyway and then crying wolf. In my psychological analysis, since I am no legal expert and cannot speak to the audacity of the British parole system, which deemed Usman fit to be released, the fact that he was released, even if provisionally, shows a serious lack of judgment. Usman was already in jail for what he promised he would do if he were released. But he was released. And he lived up to his promise of being a delusional, violent, angry, hateful, militarised, Jihadist and a self-proclaimed defender of an ideology of barbarism. The fault as Shakespeare would say, “lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” The following is an introduction to the psychology of violence; a prose poetry piece titled, “Circus.” Through the poetic prose, I want to touch upon the subject of man’s nature, and man’s lower and higher selves, as it pertains to hurting others and being hurt oneself. The juxtaposition of the expose is that those who hurt others think they are fighting for something worth killing for. Those who die in their path are innocent bystanders who lose their lives at the hands of a psychotic. There is, sadly, a sympathetic following to the Usman’s view of the world by ignorant, young and radicalised Muslims. This is the tip of the iceberg. If left unchecked, there will be many more Usmans in the making, adding to what is described below, the ruthless Circus, of which we are now, advertently or inadvertently, forced participants. “Circus,” a metaphorical analogy on the topic of human destruction, is dedicated to those who are mercilessly slaughtered at the pavilion of an ideology that needs to be killed if humanity is to survive. “Earth my friends is a halfway house Duped drunk anaesthetised We enter life’s inviting gates Enter a brand new fate Exit our safe water holes Follow rhythms of oceans deep Creatures so steeped We can’t afford to keep the peace Tears only the lowly can weep The lord he casts a special spell On the dead who refuse to tell Lives full of dark horrors Lived upon the midnight stars Bought and sold Bonded, sealed, branded Radicalised scum of the earth Expunged, witch hunters Burning at the stake The dead dare not own our sorry fate Ours is an inglorious fare Lips on ice we daren’t tear away Ashen, burnt, singed, scourged Scarred beyond recognition or repair Scattered screams no one can hear Civilisation in tatters We run but we can never go far We hide, but we cannot decide We moan, we groan Unnoticed, untethered, unheard We sink not swim On sanded shores We beg for mercies that do not exist For the Gods, they only hear Women without vice The voice of the slaves Meant only for the fortunate To silence is thus is His will And to His will, we shall succumb Kings Queens Harlots, all! In His name We answer the call The nobility of the scum of the earth And everyone in between living in fear Hoping against hope for a voice A prayer of reason, A privilege, relief On beds of thorns in the East Satin negligees in the West Our fates sealed in geophysical Destiny The child in us enters the gates Of heavenly delights Man-made hells, a sorry fate We enter the castle, rush to the tomb Hope for the best, prepare for doom We thrive we survive only to die Dreaming of wings with which to fly Hurriedly we enter the domain We find our legs, sip on our pegs Jostle our bowls, forsake our souls Dance our cares away, playing with fire The Gods we sway with our boldness We snatch, we snitch, we fight, we twitch We rob and plunder and call it a blunder Forced to grab our share of sustenance We collect feverishly some golden spoons Riding in crimson sunsets and silver moons We let ourselves take the bait lest the night Forsake our fate We pray to statues with hearts of stone Deities divided, devoid of love We favour hate; alter our fate Savour high teas, aromas of cinnamon Freshly baked fruit cakes and scones We bury the dead without a moan Children die in our stead While we return warmly to bed Wage war for a sip of water On earths with oceans with so many borders No drops to spare we try our kids not to scare Once the party begins we know They have nowhere else to go Going once going twice going thrice We’re hopelessly in Sold to the circus part of the show We learn to look for ourselves In corners, we’re forced to dwell Boundaries without beginning or end Earth’s finite circumference We wait our turn in wedding halls We yearn, we wed eagerly Men we abhor We live for the prize the glory the crown It helps if our skin is fair, not brown The name, the house, the title, servants We are the clown of our own show In winter or spring, sand or snow We eagerly entertain strangers without heartbeats People we pretend to befriend The living dead, so many forgotten names Soulless creatures, we waive the wand We toe the line, pay the fine Suffer in utter silence Trying to find a centre We drift afar, live betwixt A life of lies Pretending we are we live as if The Statue of Liberty really exists Focused on our lonely selves We find ground in hole s forlorn A space to call our own Stay abreast of the beast of tyranny We win we lose accept refuse Short or tall spring or fall The game we play not a word we say As we quietly gather sheets to cover what’s dead inside Waiting for the watch to end, waiting to call it a day Waiting silently waiting for the next dagger the next shot.” The writer holds two Masters degrees, MA Communication and MSc Clinical Psychology, Certified Therapist she authored ‘It Takes A Village To Rape A Child’