Call off your righteous gods; I

did not blaspheme.

You have carved a 12-foot nemesis

from a pebble an inch across; you

are smelling brimstone of your own delusion.

It is real, but not here; you see

the fire the next town over.

Here, your toes

feel quicksand as concrete and

hear a symphony as slaughter.

You.

YOU

stand on slights imagined,

step on simple Samaritans,

press on buttons YOU have drawn, you

hypocrite of the hippocratical.

Stand the FUCK down.