The Tragic Irony of Humanity's Self-Destruction

Shall I show you something beautiful?

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Shall I show you something beautiful?

Screams and shouts and bullet shells,

bloody skies and bloody ground,

bullets pouring from guns like

the scarlet from the gaping wounds.

The whispers of memories that

lick at the empty eyes and

hollow cheeks.

The faces: screaming, crying, begging, weeping,

blurring into a single gaping chasm of horror and loss.

The officer; uniform crisp and untainted

by the barbarity the envelope imprisons.

 

Shall I show you something beautiful?

Viper's words spat out from blue lips.

Chants; challenges cast out over innocent crowds,

as damaging as the bricks and stones that followed.

A broken record of burning hate,

the fear concealed behind the glaring eyes,

the broken windows and the glass

that coats the ground like snow.

The black helmets, the shields,

cannot defend the wearer from the twisted faces,

the kind that pursue you in the nightmares

that always follow, like hunting dogs.

 

Shall I show you something beautiful?

Bruises that spatter pale skin like paint;

greens and blues and purples, that blend into

a discolouration that spreads over the icy parchment of their flesh.

An art piece by punches and

spiteful blows,

fists that wrench the hope and promise

out of them,

bit by bit.

And the blank faces of those

who ignore and insist

that it's none of their business.

 

Shall I show you something beautiful?

Feet stuck out in hallways.

Books hurled into trees,

the papers dancing in the air,

in perfect time with the tears

that dance down their cheeks

as they stand by and watch.

Brutal words carved into their flesh,

words that scorch through their blood,

words sharpened with invisible knives that have

been forged in spite and loathing and jealousy.

And they can never escape..

 

Shall I show you something beautiful?

Children lined up

like bottles behind a bar.

Masquerading as adults,

in a haunting game of dress-up.

With guns in their shaking hands,

and lies in their poisoned minds,

they age

their innocence shot to oblivion. 

The death that makes children

into murderers and

disillusioned monsters.

 

Shall I show you something beautiful?

Bones protruding out through skin

like tumours.

And the fierce insistence that nothing is wrong,

except themselves,

because they are wrong-

they look wrong.

With the cut-back meals,

and the vomiting,

and the body that rebels against itself. 

Because what is more beautiful than

a skeleton?

 

Shall I show you something beautiful?

Self-loathing.

Self-inflicted punishment.

The pain they think they deserve.

The only pain they can control

is the one they serve themselves.

So they let the pain out

through knives and razors and

anything they can find

when the pain is about to drown them.

Awaiting that one day

when they go too far...

 

Have I shown you beautiful things?

I must have.

I am Death.

I would say that I am the End,

but that would be a lie.

It's not me,

it never will be.

It's you.

All of you.

Because they must be beautiful things,

if you all let them happen,

again and again and again.

 

All such beautiful things.

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