Do we see this creature’s soul rise,
Do we see a breath after death?
Is the breath your own gasp
At the ruthless art of the kill?
Do you sit on the platform of distance
And chilled cognition,
Watching the killing underfoot?
Do you see yourself
As the killer?
Or what is killed?
Is your passivity
Also not your death?
Do you turn your head in shame
And blindness,
Hoping you disappear,
Hoping you won’t be held accountable,
Hoping you won’t be asked to kill
Or be killed?
Can you go on living,
When you are that dead inside?
