Monday, April 4, 2016

It doesn't start with the

Zyklon-B.
Its entrance into the world
is quieter,
and of more obscure
provenance.
It is a whispered rumor,
a garbled retelling,
a fairy tale told in blood,
a story that ends in tears of rage and
vengeance.
The words of
madness are
seared into the budding
neurons
like a branding iron.
They are the
rock-bottomed
God DAMNED
Way. It. Is.
And the Way. It. Is.
says that
every hungry stomach,
bloodied soldier,
stillborn baby,
withered crop, and
merciless plague
arises from THEIR evil magic.
Filtered through countless
wounded minds
over countless
wounded centuries,
the skin of the Others
becomes horrid and reptilian,
their rapacity
bottomless,
their evil
unbounded,
their continued existence
unthinkable.
And only when the
rock-bottomed
God DAMNED
Way. It. Is.
finally has its ultimate victory,
only at the end of the story,
can the good man
kiss his sleeping two year-old,
and with a clear conscience
tell himself that the bonfire of
screaming children
was necessary
to protect her.