Let them in. They are knocking. Greet them smiling. Open the door. Offer them food, shelter, water, truth. The collectors of the ripe morsels, the architects of delusion and transporters of despair, have reaped from your wide eyes already steeped in filth, flooded your hearts that have ceased to clang. Obedient tyrants are holding stained flags with equally stained hands, streaking ugliness across your flooded soil, washing away all proof that anyone actually loved there. Tell them that the history books will be thinner for their starvation, remembrance, nothing more than a cackling emptiness, scripture and prayer devoid of conscience, ripened of spiritless gods. Let them in. They are knocking. Greet them smiling. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)