We trudge barn-bound,
                  To find appalling sites
          Of vagrant shrouds.

                     Soon though we stumble,
Among vain citadels
         of stubborn intent;
                          Self-confined to Hells

                Of preservative pride
                                      And tribal tutelage.
All wishing to hide

In plain sight from those
Who threaten impingement
                              On such hallowed ground.
               Suspicion grows.

                     Just right of us, we are unable
     To unsee the scene which unfolds
                                   As monster unveilled,

               Appearing no more or less
Unfeeling or inhumane
As you or I,  turns and
                                    Refuses to entertain

    Even such a concept as to
                          Engage and conform.
           We though know our duty through.

Years of prodded incentives
     And dictated routine. Captive
         We stand and welcome the bolt,
              Simply hoping its passage is clean.