Desolation or desecration
One seems nature’s fault and the other
So intentional it gives
You cause to grieve for
The state of the
Two-legged dog

Marred by a hand
That might have been turned
To building, or at least
The sanctification
Of the going on;
One must be creative
As all hell to be
So destructive
And know precisely
Where the stone will
Bleed

Precision cuts are only neater
Than the sledgehammer
But in time and ruthlessness
They drain the soul

After all, the effort
To be a destroyer
Comes from an addled mind
Which, twisted to its own fierce logic,
Will present a masterpiece
That spawns a murder.

The best and worst
Reside in the same
Unhappy shell,
And sit on shoulders
As gleeful opposites. It has
Always seemed the angel
On the right has
Been the one whose moral
Qualms and restraining logic
Should always triumph

But oh, when he was made
The two-legged dog
Was given a devil
That can be boundlessly adept
When he lades
The hating impulse
In his bottomless heart

And he sits on the other shoulder
And never seems to sleep

09/11/2009

Author's Note: Written after my annual wandering by the still ruins of Ground Zero

Posted on 10/01/2009
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch