Stick figure children with bellies bloated on beds of diseased dirt; in pockets for quarters we reach, the crocodile tears stream.
Animals spirits crushed, broken bleeding bodies on our television screens; check books pen in hand, we pretend someone else’s bad dream.
Flesh mutilated by bullets and bombs, lungs and brains choked by toxic fumes, hearts stop beating; no war, if only we could have peace, in vain we feign scream.
All these and more, the heinous, repugnant, the unspeakable, the unthinkable, we as a collective have chosen to be.
It is neither God or a devil who has imprisoned us in nightmare and it will be neither they that make the choice that will set us free.
Love is not some passing fancy, a fad of flower children dancing on fields on green, it is our salivation, our truth, our eternity, our infinite destiny…
“It is true that all of us are the beneficiaries of crimes committed by our ancestors, and it is true that nothing can be done about that now because the victims are dead and the survivors are innocent. These are good reasons for keeping our mouths shut about the past: but tell me, what are our reasons for silence about atrocities still to come?” ~ Damon KnightPass