How dare cruelty throttle laughter? Women withered inside the surrender beneath an oracle of klieg lights, beneath instruments of an unrequited rage with the stamp of coldness calling down. How dare brutality hammer away at joy? Pitiful artists, blood for watercolor, suffering as the brushes stroke that marches across affection like death bearing shapeless and shivering claws. How dare we do nothing but rewind, turn back our film to view such horror masquerading as grave confusion, a bitter love to be honored by man. How dare such loathing not be seen for what it is, our most severe sickness wearing the disguise of truth, lies wrapped in fists and tongues pointing back at man, without words. © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)