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
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
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
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.