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The Hallowed Wo/Men

( After T.S. Eliot )
Another era of repetition    
  puncture a historic dial—    
become a thorn inside seconds    
meaningless at the core; hollow—    
 no one different than the other  
 the other no different than before;    
each brigade of sixty seconds  
or minutes, marching as to war  
  one by one follow the hands  
  hour after hour,    
until their time is no more.    
Here is where repetition is born:    
  a needle dancing with its own echo    
in the parlor— scratchy throated—    
  a shallow crevice preventing    
 forward movement    
 into the heart of the song—    
   its music trapped in time    
    repeating itself, mirroring    
over and over:    
     conflict, death— conflict, death    
     we follow no other compass.    
How have we evolved into colonialism—    
  escaping the Gun Powder plot    
  beneath the Houses of Parliament    
distracting from the blood disease  
of imperialistic ideology—    
  its hand stretched forth in greed  
  continents between fingers;  
roots exposed, dangling limbs of Being-    
repeating itself— over and over    
  until it becomes a mantra    
  for future generations:    
  conflict, death— conflict, death  
  we follow no other compass.    
Battlefield earth, her symbiosis designed  
  to accommodate the whole of Life—    
looks no different than the other  
the other no different than before—    
  spears, arrows, weapons of rock:    
Cain, Able, the cost jealousy affords  
   when we covet our brother’s lot.  
Sword, musket, antler knife, gunpowder  
    treason and plot— who does remember  
       they are their brother’s keeper  
       in the midst of tragic loss.  
 Between the beginning and end    
    lies the repetition;  
  between the opening and closing    
    lies the repetition;    
 within the solar plexus of the repetition  
    lies an unmeasured lesson  
in time, pain, and experience.    
Fertile lands embraced    
  our foreign ways of trade  
between ocean and land;    
beyond islands and continents—    
  its hair invisibly combed    
  into banners of conquerors.    
Those hallowed men and women—    
   those colored-skinned nations    
  their ancient customs foreign;    
spun from great dynasties of spirit  
into silken tapestries of origin.    
 They were the meek ones—    
  the workers, providers;    
  their offerings suffocated    
into martyrdom from nooses  
whipping poles, diseased blankets    
   and boiling sugar water.    
Sparks rising from pyres in the night—    
  dissipated of their heat, disappearing  
behind their cloaks of darkness;    
their burial palls black as graves—    
  legends, burnt offerings    
  of flesh melting from bone—    
their slayers asleep in their beds    
  visions of the new world    
  circling over homesteads—      
warpaint of pride, conquest    
  smeared across their dreams.    
What is so different about this  
  from which we escaped—    
we have become the monster we hate;    
and, this world,    
                              this world,    
                                                this world  
  will not end with peace;  
  but, the bloodshed of innocence:    
     land, air, and ocean polluted of breath—    
  all lifeforms on the brink of collapse;      
this is how it will come to pass    
  this and nothing else—    
not the top one percent  
  tossing crumbs to the indigent;    
nor corporate giants squeezing    
  every cent from the middle-class;  
but, as it was in the beginning:    
            a brilliant flash of light!    
  followed by silence  
                                                   and ash.    
Author's Note
For the Classic Comp T.S. Eliot Tribute:
Due to the nature of some images I have marked this adult content.
Inspirational poem: The Hollow Men
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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