We are not dead. We were never alive.
There's a swastika carved in the palm of his hand.
There's a crooked cross that is caught in his mind.
There waits a falling sun in his eyes.
There's the honor of violence on his lips.
His father waits for him in the towers of silence
To worship the fires so long ago quenched.
Under two willow trees, with Elhaz inverted,
The fork of life snapped:
There, father and son shall mingle in dust
As if life itself had been mostly illusion
But partially real...and partially pain.
And over some wall,
If you look through the rubble,
Amongst ruins of churches where life conquers death...
Though empires cannot last,
Where blood and soil's concepts have faltered and failed,
A cloud still sows teeth as the world disappears.