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The power that truly impresses us,
and which throughout history, we most enjoy,
has never been the power of new creation,
but rather the power to destroy.

After all, a single death is a tragedy,
but a million deaths is a statistic;
and ever since Stalin first said those words,
we've proven them nightmarishly realistic.

Indeed, some have expanded them further still,
predicting what even Stalin did not:
Saying that one death makes you a murderer,
a million makes you a conqueror,
and a billion makes you a god.

And inevitably,
the day always comes 'round again,
when we feel the necessity
of blood sacrifice:

for our true gods Mars and Moloch
are forever hungry,
and deaths are always
their demanded prize.

Because the greatest and most ultimate statement
is to forcibly take a life:
In the end, nothing else
can ever hope to suffice.

We never much care
about the power of beginnings,
because against the orgy of bloodlust,
it will always pale...

Fertility and growth,
and life’s bounties we take as granted:
at least until the day
when those bounties fail.

And when such scarcity
comes to pass,
we know how to bring
plenty back again:

when missiles streak across the sky,
like the ancient wicker man standing tall,
with the sun setting behind
the sacrificial flames.
The original, 1973 version of The Wicker Man is one of my favourite movies. Like many fans of the original, I would dearly love to forget the abomination that was the 2006 “remake” with Nicholas Cage… (Oh, God! Not the bees!!!)

Apart from the most obvious references to the plot of the movie itself, there is also the notion that sooner or later, our basic instincts to kill one another always have to be sublimated in one form or another. Indeed, I’ve always contended that for all the talk about ‘inner peace’ and ‘the way and the light’, our true Gods of choice have always been Moloch and Mars.

Both of these deities are always hungry, and, of course, always demand human sacrifice…
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Did you mourn for me
that day when I fell
and stepped on an angel
that took me up to heaven?

I shattered into bright light
red like the eternal flame
my body fell down apart
and my soul, it went away.

Did you return to find me
or was there nothing to find
in that beautiful meadow
where I flew into the sky?

Did I even go to heaven
or did I fall into hell
after all the things I did
and after the men I killed?

You’ll have to tell me
because I do not know
what happened next
because by then I was dead.

Written after a breif study of WW1 poetry.
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we were children seeking to escape
the city of well polished chrome
we walked far across the landscape
in search of home away from home
so we did roam away from Rome
to find life beyond Caesar's hold
but it was seen in every tome
that everything was Rome-controlled

Caligula the cruel we fled
his tyranny was know to all
his vice bold and his goblet lead
but from not far we watched him fall
stabbed like Caesar we did appall
but we were trapped and as I told
and as all plebeians recall
that everything was Rome-controlled

Nero came and played a tune
the screams of men did harmonize
and as the city laid in ruin
we saw the streets and did realize
all roads lead to Rome- our cries
sounded as our hopes did fold
we knew that in the madmen's rise
that everything was Rome-controlled
This is something I wrote years ago about escaping society, but I wanted to share it with Deviantart.
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