I spit on the history of cities, constructed with sword and skulls, myths created by torturers, architects of slaughter. Ranged along broad streets, ( firepaths on their secret plans ), statues of these butchers abound.
And in their hushed libraries, mouldering books clutter each shelf, economical catalogues of facts chosen to perpetuate the deadly toll of profit and loss. Let sleeping books lie.
Nature knows their every secret and shits on their smug faces, slowly erodes each self-satisfied smile, wipes carved stone clean.
This poem has been lying around for long enough. It didn't take much dusting down.