poetry, Politics, War, War Crimes, World, World War II

The Wasted Century


The unripe promise of a different past

Buried in a heap of classified reports and red brocade

How strange the echo of an unheard cry

It bounces ‘gainst the windows letting light into our hearts

Better dead than red they said

Though I’m partial to believing

That the reason west feared the east

Was that they saw so much of themselves in the other

What is and was and might have been

Had we only made believe

That human blood and human toil

Were worth their weight in gunpowder and lead

200 million offerings

Upon an iron alter

Smeared with the still smoldering flesh

Given as tokens to ideological gods

Capital and Control

Neither is right

Neither left us anything but

Blackened bones

6 continents screaming

Bloody murder into an endless horizon

Colored umber and oily blue

Cronus belching the remains of generations

Into his calloused hands

The people ignore the monster in their midst

Because he at least has the decency to snuff them out

Casting lots and votes and bodies into hastily dug holes

Dead no less from a red or a red white and blue bullet

Bleeding into that same dust from which Prometheus molded our flesh


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