Warm winters have upset the natural balance,

Awoken are the slumberers, too early.

Shockingly now-privy to the happenings hidden beneath sleep,

The land sold out from underneath them;

Protests promised to be drowned out by the loud and clear

Black-and-white text of a contract,

(A declaration from the holiest of Capitalist mosques)

The transcript of a private conversation,

Of children impersonating Gott,

Sans the stature,

Making themselves heard in a tantrum

(Forgiven, as all children should be).


They slip through the night by guise of innocence,

For how could the harmless become harmful? they’d ask,

Hiding fangs from the revealing moonlight with the slightest of hands,

Delivering comfort to the enshrouded,

With sickly sweet platitudes:

“Only hurt people hurt people, yeah?

So let’s hurt the hurt people, yeah?”


When the snows come like toxic deluge,

Smoldering the carefully cultivated warmth,

Born from neighbor-hearths snuggled close,

The kinder dance in the streets in some simplistic parade,

(Parading as art, more honestly)

The ritual to stamp the coffin of present-turned-past;

But then, with a roar of existential thunder:

Die Bärmänner sind erwacht.


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