If eons ago, the ancient human
let moral reason ascend his throne,
which kingdom bred the thirsty hounds?
Killers of kin they refuse to own.

Their genes survive through a phobia of snakes.
Their backs are turned on the blameless dead.
Do they shudder to tell their children the tales
of lesser monsters beneath their bed?

A mother begs, “Please soften your gaze—
for the sake of all you protect, hold dear.”
But mercy never stills a cold, clean blade.
It tears through the flesh in rage and fear.

The orphaned and maimed stare at ruins
while the blind believe the false alarm—
Terror is:

skin
religion
vermin

Not the tyrant and his firearm.