The Herd

Enclosed in a niche of an inconstant ocean,

there's tranquility in the collapse of an

ever constant day.

From the awakening of our Lords,

that command their toy soldiers

to consume, produce, and kill.

What's the difference? Really.

Once water in our hands,

later cyanide in their eyes.

Torture. Who could care less?

Really.

Sharpen their weapons,

load the arsenal,

recite our allegiance --

what a wonderful spectacle

Fascism is.

No need for liberty and democracy;

when everyone has nothing, ergo,

we have everything.

No capitalist hoarders to tell us

to command the post of the same

factory of production that

creates ignorant beings of consumption.

This wonderland that granted me perpetual

satisfaction in the quotidian inevitability

of an undying die...

Threatened by those who claim

the merit of freedom in

the West.

How I scoffed when

their heads went flying to the West

after I reported to the General.

Agonizing eyes that tried to pierce

through my soul -- spelling "how can

you do this to your brethren" --

stopped by my iron wall of

indifference.

The more time that passed the less

I cared about the sharp slitting sound

of the knife as it crucified their

fates while I sat in my chair eating

pork that looked like their countenances

fat.

Like a lost lamb, I found myself in the herd...

20 heads mean nothing.

We're all satisfied because

the other is.

Does it really matter?

Frankly, I don't care.

------------------

By the way, this was supposed to be a satire, and a critical short story. If that didn't get through, well, I'm that much of a terrible person. Just kidding.