A day in early September.
The year: two thousand and one.
A horror, too hard to remember.
The auspicious new century begun.
They say not to stoke up the embers.
For the fires of malice have sprung,
from the well of poisonous resentment,
we su*k as our mother tongue.
With mouth, parched dry and bloated,
with lips, cracked and sore.
A desperate cry, deep-throated,
weeps from every pore.
The water, while quenching, is bitter,
as the motives of self-righteous fools.
In the blood of second-rate martyrs,
gods find their purpose and tools.
In the night they gather in secret,
seized by their singular trait.
To stifle opposing opinion,
to ideas that admit no debate.
Reading the signs and the omens,
of an insular culture of greed.
Joined with the mad Oklahoman,
the terrible violence of creed.
The meaning for suicide bombers,
is dressed in the holiest cloth.
They punctuate history as commas,
familiars of hatred and wrath.
If belief informs our action,
then faith will drive you nuts;
when reason bows to passion,
and death, a thousand cuts.
So we feint with the phantoms of fervor.
And pursue to the ends of the earth,
those puppets and masters of murder,
devoid of all substance and worth.
This night in early October.
The year: two thousand and two.
Shocked, cold-eyed, stone sober;
the old century shadows the new.
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