The Chosen
Though I've been told, countless millenniums, centuries, generations,
Over and over and over,
That I'm the slime of the earth, lower than vermin, steaming feces,
The personification of an Untermensch,
Hardly worth the time, the cost, to bury my bones,
Let alone the energy expended
To exterminate my expendable identity, memory, and soul,
I seem to keep being resuscitated, reborn,
Creating inconvenience, expense, posing existential questions
Eluding mankind's primal answers, final solutions,
As if there must be a reason, a justification, a vision,
Maybe even beyond omniscient God's decisions,
For why I keep surviving dying out, going extinct.
I must be the chosen fodder for the Vaterland's gluttony.
05/11/12
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