to kill, he is murdering
their ability
to love. When he gets up
to go to the bathroom,
he stretches his toes in
the expensive shoes, unencumbered
by bombs dropping
in on his head. His
taste for wine tends toward
very dark red. When he
gives the order to kill,
one wonders how many
realize it is for
both sides to die today.
He loves his horse. He will
have their horses killed. He
has a beloved daughter.
He will kill all their sons
and daughters. Anything
that moves without his permission.
It's all too easy,
he tells himself. All
I have to do is command
them to work and they'll
do it, night and day, all
day long, every day, until
I have what I wanted.
It's never boring.
He doesn't care how the
world ends, but he would like
to see the Christmas lights
up in the square one more
time before that happens.
He will burn their Christmas
gifts to ash to show them
there is no safety from
his net, which, yes, he knows
is full of holes, but who
among the many cowards
will step forward and
really care? He has THE
bomb. The one. When he gives
the order to kill, they'd
best see to it or be
killed themselves. It's our way
our sovereign right, he
thinks, to take over lands
so we might live in peace.