Unfinished Poem (The Sacrifice)

Embarking on a bloodletting: Every sacrifice will have its sheep unless it’s a human sacrifice. As usual, the guilty are in charge. They will not be satisfied until some innocents are bleeding.

The gods don’t want their sacrifice. They never have. But it doesn’t matter because the sacrifice wasn’t meant for the gods but for self-appeasement. The guilty, with blood already on their hands–they will let more blood still, then ask for absolution, cross themselves, say their benediction. They will then sleep well at night. They always sleep well at night. 

The world will be a worse place because they were in it. But they will get the rewards and awards. They are, after all, the ones in charge. They mete out rewards. They make the awards, choose the recipients, pay for the ceremonies with money they have stolen. And the victims bleed in pain, wondering how to feed their children, how to get their medicines, how to get out into the world in the morning, with their heads held up, looking out, keeping their eyes from sinking low.  

The blood-letters will not see their victims. They will have a thought of them, now and then–and let out a rare sigh of exasperation. But their priests will say it was the will of the gods. They will all exclaim it part of a divine plan.

But they will be lying to themselves and everyone else. It will have been nothing more than an unnecessary act of cruelty and stupidity by those with power but lacking the wisdom and generosity to use it justly.

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