Hate is not Theater. But we Know our lines.
Baleful mongers squandering Grace at the behest
Of an Ungrateful Fiction, with Irony’s Teeth
And Doll’s Eyes glaring at the Puppet Master’s strings
To stitch an Excuse to an Impulse
With ancestor hands, chafed by grim and bloodstain
Like windows with dead eyes, locked on a sunset
To best glean the contours
of a Sunrise

At the scene of our every crime.

We know History will not Lie, but our Bibles might…
So we amend our Treaties to serve
The demon at hand. The one that we know.
Slouching quazi-cognizant
In all Splendor, War-Minded and About It.
The Way we lose Our Way
Never Trivial.

The Way We Lose Our Minds

Classic.