Is It

I’m sensing a stereotype developing

Warriors haunted with PTSD

Strike fear into their charges’ hearts,

As though the shepherds would devour

Their own lambs

I’m driven to ask

If there is not a soldier

Holed up within himself

Now, now that the champagne is quiet

And the confetti lies dead,

Unwilling to crawl out of his skull to so much

As kill a fly,

Staring out of his cells,

Thinking that to unlearn

The war in his hands

And take up gentleness again

Is not an effort more worthy

Than a quick and quiet self-violence

That might come easier than

Flaring out at an oblivious psychological trigger.

Malachi 3:13-16

"Your words have been hard against me," says the LORD. "But you say, 'How have we spoken against you?' You have said, 'It is vain to serve God. What is the profit of our keeping his charge or of walking as in mourning before the LORD of hosts? And now we call the arrogant blessed. Evildoers not only prosper but they put God to the test and they escape.'"

Then those who feared the LORD spoke with one another. The LORD paid attention and heard them, and a book of remembrance was written before him of those who feared the LORD and esteemed his name.

...
The King will return. All will be made right.

Hugo

Hugo

a protest is in order.

So much that people write on cats—

All the mystery expounded ad infinitum,

Saying, “Ah, that poem is a cat, and is so much more,”

then oblige a maudlin Lassie scribble,

saying, “There’s a good boy,”

have done with it,

And jump right back to writing psalms to their spastic god.

You sit, your tail fwapping in glee and speculation,

basking in the world that is your bone-yard.