Here Slaughter, son of Murder, stakes his claim.
His grunting trucks patrol around the pit,
Where cranes and shovels sort the heaps of slain,
Stacked high between the walls of bone and grit.
Here Murder broke the ground that once was green,
And stamped the pasture flat with rubble cones.
Brought out a poison better left unseen,
And left a barren ditch between the stones.
Here we shall welcome Horror, Slaughter’s heir.
She’ll fill the pit with bones scraped bare, made clean.
Sieve out the poison burnt into the air
And write in ash, “Remember what has been.”
In flowers we shall lay our memories here,
Each new guilt buried in another year.
I lack a poem to post for you today.
A year ago, I wrote them once a week.
Half I put here. The rest I hid away,
Because I saw the words I wrote were weak.
The end drew nigh, and evil trod the land,
In form of fleshless bones, with gaze of fire,
With blood-red rats, that ranged at their command,
And gnawed strong bricks to sand, to serve their ire.
Who held against the horde was honoured high;
One spoke not such a name, but sang of hope.
For most, to meet the rats meant flee, or die,
And few could run to match the bone-beasts' lope.
In time, the most grew few and heroes died,
Til evil's foes were bones, or made of bone.
The sole survivors crossed the seas, and cried
Despair on each dry continent of stone.
By means most grim, they lived past evil's fall,
Then fell in lands restored, on gallows tall.
You summoned me from depths of dreams unknown;
You had me swear — "I'll serve against all need."
You crowned my head and sat me on a throne,
And bowing down, commanded me to lead.
I sent out ships to ports, and roads to towns.
I hunted thieves till order claimed the night,
Commanded songs to where the world wore frowns.
Told what to do, I vowed to do it right.
For battles won, I heard when cities wept;
The hungry fed, I saw the curse of fat;
And in the suburbs debt had claimed and kept,
The taste of triumph fled, and left me flat.
I shake to watch my laws and fortunes fade:
A legacy by my own acts unmade.
There's nothing strong enough to keep you chained,
Nor locks to hold you out, or keep you in.
Your might grew greater as my allies' waned.
We fight once more, and you will surely win.
You have not taken up my offered words.
It pains me that you won't choose to atone.
But in your greed you guzzle meat by herds;
Your choice would be a future filled with bone.
I am not you, to kill you like a cow;
I'll leave your meat uncut, your skin unflayed.
I'd lift no blade if less could stop you now;
But for survival, guilt is fair in trade.
Thus I —
I cannot strike the fatal blow.
Promise me change, or anything, but go!