patchwork narrative - Cruelty
JUN 29

Throughout night walks I see, touch their misery;
so many unwanted people, so much gratuitous cruelty.
Children thoughtlessly conceived, grudgingly borne helpless,
let loose into the world without a friend.  All these people who
trust death much more than life.
A streak of compassion grasps my pondering mind, takes thought
into a whirl of streams.  I am drawn to wondering about mothers,
their archetype of loving protection.  How do beleaguered women
conscious of their inability to give what they lack, of their bleakness,
allow their children birth into useless suffering, into brutality?
Inculcated or innate, maternal imperative, moral responsibility to love
and protect, ought sound strong warning against prolonging
unfortunate gestation.  Certainly women have always shared knowledge,
means of ending what ought not have begun.  Or do they feel need for
outward manifestation of their sins of pleasure, of weakness, of
worthlessness?  Do they bear not blessings but images to punish,
a chain of blood and thorns as reminder and retribution?  Is there
redemption in such carrying of disease, deadly remorse?
Just what is redemption?  What is redeemed?  Is there some reputable
proof beyond my education that through trial and purification, flailing of
body, mind, essential code, over generations man is meant to evolve
beyond dependence on punishment?
Then what of demons, of my fate?  Are we stuck in mere mimic of a process
we have no hope of taking part in?
Are there people who don’t take part as well?  Are their human beings who
have not been infected with twisted need?  Could there even be people who
have seen through that losing game, turned instead to games of merriment,
deep satisfaction, development of will and wisdom, to enjoying usefully
happy pursuits?  Those are not the grown-ups of the world I know.
Perhaps they only exist as phantom suppositions, my hope for their better
world if they could be.
Where would I fit, so much as I find my crevices, in such a world?
A social enterprise busy with exciting, effective projects that preclude
time or interest for bleeding energy, for unbreakable chains of punishment,
for the clarity of hate, bounties of war, worship of clever weapons.  Would
such stalwart sapiens welcome me as fellow sentient?  Would they
supportively rehabilitate my hunger with appropriate technologies?
Or would I sneak through their inattentions as any random tragedy strikes?
How long could I maintain my secret existence, avoid capture, in a world
where no one goes through their time unwanted, in which every missing person
is assuredly missed? 

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