faces grey

carved with hate

heads shaven like

a landscape stripped of vegetation

and left to the barren ground

acid eaten faces

with small hard dark eyes

figures devoid of the touch

of any light of truth

cold graven empty men

roughly chipped from the rock of ice

hard clenched fists hitting away pummeling

invisible imaginary foes

to the screeching discordance of rage

frozen bloody steel

 

...their legacy.

 

 

they are cold and silent

as the knife-driving Siberian wind is cold

and the open mouth of the possessed screaming

in the terrible realms of sound beyond the pitch of human hearing

is silent

 

for such hate to grow

some hurt must, like the grinding irritating grain

of sand snuck into an oyster, have been suffocated in coating layers

of black crust, jade for awhile now.

i wish light could penetrate

their caves

i want warmth for them, for

hate's no antidote to hate.

what can be done when the iron door of rage  rusted shut over a whole realm of hearts?

 

sir, we can only pray.