Affairs of Hate, a poem

You stand Shrouded in the doughy ham-faced veil Glistening not with sweat Nor from any conscience But their tears They pepper your skin, dribbling down the sagging contours Districts scarred by the passage of time Infertile land, once fruitful crops now overrun with pimples and blemishes A map once rife with production Now a mausoleum, marble pillars Lock them in place As they reach You see They scatter as you lift your gargantuan foot Slamming it into their writhing bodies You twist and lift your foot again The shadow blinks over another group A reflection in the puddle Meets your eyes You are doing well, it tells you They'll thank you, it says You hear Your ears alert only to the whispers That echo Endless words, distorted beyond meaning But they speak only one truth They are your voice There are others like you Connected by a trail of glistening droplets Slipping notes like schoolboys A flash of green in clammy hands But you are not one And in your back pocket Each of you carries A sharp knife