The end justifies the means
And by that I mean, the MEANS.
So they slit throats, gut bellies
Tickle places so remote, between lungs
Cutting tongues, razors sinking among
Those organs dear, none wishing to hear
Foul cries and lies that make them despise
Our torturers, our enemies, our friends.

The End, Immaculate conception
Youth, burned from a mind that in time
Would spur hope, now be-mimed
Gritty, their faces upturned to red fog
Hounds, not dogs, at the heels of insanity
Yet when it called, they did come
As quickly as any well-fed cur.

Or is it a Beginning, begging
That makes them yearn for a turn
At the wheel that strains beneath a yoke
Fashioned just for them, on a whim
Really a sin to ignore such gifting
When slavery can be so upliftingly
Befitting of kings, with crowns tarnished

And gone.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Sarapin, in the year 641 AF.