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TELL ME, WHO DOES THESE TERRIBLE THINGS
TELL ME, WHO DOES THESE TERRIBLE THINGS
There was a prophet
More cutting than the mare of steel,
Of which, no more truth could be distilled;
Troglodytes kept from the sun
Assembled at his tongue
To hear the translated babble from tongue of fire.
Always his voice was raised above all others;
As if, spoken from some unbeknown wilderness,
To proffer calm as known only in the cyclone’s eye,
Where away from assuaged pain we gather together,
To savor a voice of specialness as if it were our own.
Now, we are chosen above all others; chosen as the
Elect to say what aught to be. But, we, knowing of
Our inferiority will speak only in our megalomaniac terms.
Yes, there is a glory that we all want to hear; a retreat from
Cowardice, a taking up of arms and an unbearable sacrifice
To be borne. But in the dark there is only you and myself.
Both of us proud by our brother’s blackened cry, gridlocked
Side by side to our inane belief in the eye of a Tiger bought
By the adjudicators of the War on Terror. Yes, those who
Know who is terrible and those who do these terrible things.
