The Ways of Evil
It is born in hunger, or cold.
The viscous, corrosive shadow.
It drove men to hunt, skin and eat.
And fuels every fire, started by man.
Sadly though, our bellies are full.
And our blankets warm.
And hence this shadow, spills.
It's wordless agenda is never quenched,
And like acid, it burns through.
The blood it pumps, in limbs and heads;
Sows crops, and harvests babies.
It stores fortunes, for the sake of children;
Sometimes though, after snatching from others.
It offers blood and sweat,
In the name of loyalty.
And flogs those who question too much,
To command obedience.
And while we wield it to survive,
We forget, about the cancer of fear;
Fear, it looks like hatred,
Sometimes like cruelty.
Mostly like cowardice.
Fear, it burns down villages and cities.
Evaporates entire races and generations.
Keeps whole nations as servants,
For hundreds of years.
And those who escape, are afraid.
Those who survive, face dreams of death.
Their population drowned in debt,
Their lives swallowed in drudgery.
Their evenings poured out and sipped in.
And nights silenced by abuses and blows.
And when the stupor stills their hands,
And puts them to sleep.
That is when the fear creeps out.
And crawls across the floor.
Into the children's blanket,
Nudging them into nightmares.
In there, fear resides.
Ferments, rots and stays.
Waiting to jump out, years later,
From sadist eyes,
From murderous blades.
From dogmatic, institutional canes.
And speeches of hatred,
Poured in the ears of idiots.
It weakens us into plump,
Middle aged men; only to bring war,
At our doorsteps.
Where the heroes offer to die, in courage,
And cowards follow to kill, in obligation.
And when every hero is dead, or maimed,
Or worse, destroyed;
There is the crop of wide eyed kids back home,
Whatever survives, has its ways.