Archive
02/09/10 - (1)
Seasons on End
How could it be? How could it have been? And, for all I know, how will it be, again, When the future backs up on itself, allows its black, algal detritus To explode society's corroding pipes, inundate the ripe fatherland, Arrive at its dry tidal basins, in waves of crimson genocide, Bringing life to a dying nation?
All I can reason is this: Every millennium, century, generation, seasons on end, it seems, Something snaps in man's synapses; the old verities of his dark heart Fester, spark, with feverish contagion, set about systematically ravaging Everything in their path, parading their own superiority — That primal instinct from time's origins — to justify their schadenfreude.
02/09/10 - (1)
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