The children are not weeping for our souls;
they are shaking innard quaking
tears streaming hot
hearts beating rapid fire pitter-patter
like the shotguns in our mouths
scared stiff and senseless in fear of our foulness
fear for our fists.
The children do not cry out in joy at the sight of us coming home;
they are crying parched screams we ignore
what they preach
to restore in them a confidence we killed.
They cry in desperate will
in the mere chance lightning will strike twice
in the hope we not kill them too.
The children do not smile because they like us or are like us;
we perpetuate facts and acts
beyond legitimate knowledge of nature
beyond seasons of knives and needles
for these whose winters have yet to end
smile warm smiles to grin and bear
because they know what we will do
what we will turn into if they don’t.
The children refuse to admit us to their games not because
they think us too high and mighty;
angelic alabaster feathers on chintz pages
we are the serpentine monsters and murderers
destroy all we touch and would them too
without rhyme or reason or correlating consequences
beyond sands and symphonies
because we rule the word
we rule the world wickedly.