Your Hatred Has Holes

Why would you choose
To sully their bones,
Desecrate memories
And trail their soil
Through your homes?

Poor is the man with a new variation
Each time that a season returns,

A fresh anger,
Shape shifting,

Impatient and dreamless,
Hanging parasite limp
On the teats of the wild;

If you’re in need of a mountain,
Start walking the hills,
Take twisted lies from your heroes
And post your guilt to the poor,

Repress joy
And then scrub your hands clean,

Are you here to wake drunkards
Or see if your hatred has holes?

The dew hangs all sleepy
At the edge of your lawn,
Amid these dull suburban landscapes
Where you dream of new home fronts
As souls drop unconscious;

Your roars rattle bile ducts
And your whispers are worse,

Are you here to find scapegoats
Or just scrape the barrel?

Shallow forever
And blue,

Harmony could do
With fewer men like you.

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