When there are faces to be lit
Bigotries to be burned
And the oxygen of passion
is still plentiful.
Those who fight the fire that burns with their fire
Those who turn their back on the common foe
Those whose own bigotry gives succor to
The bigotry they seek to defeat
It is they who, when raging fire is turned to ashen pit
devoid of life, wanting no more of it
Will turn and say, No, not me.
It was them – I fought them you know
They didn’t fight the enemy, the way they ought.
The way I thought they ought.
I destroyed them and it is good.
And now I have the freedom to fight my way
And while they win their petty skirmishes
The enemy gathers himself up
Ready to win battles over which
we all shall weep.
A Lament for the effects of petty internal wrangling