The year does not matter. It was a time like any other. Filled with the same men and women. The same stem and roots, rock and stone, water and stream. Everything was as it is now; and yet, supremely different.

The women stayed home and minded the house. The husband brought home the bread and paper. The children played and went to school. They lived as any of us might have. They fought, and lied. Stole, and cried. Loved, and laughed.

They had all ten fingers and toes. A heart that beat in their chest. Torso, legs and arms. Feelings and ambition. Everything, everything it was to make you human.

But some did not see it that way; the thoughts were a malady, something to be expunged. They stole the happiness, the tears, and the fighting. All for the thoughts in a man's head. For believing something in this mess of entangled feelings and thoughts called life.

A framework, the beginning of a song; no one knows the words or tune. It is white noise, played at some unimaginable distance; and so close you can feel it's emanation. For this song they kill. For this song they dominate and inspire fear. For it snare and trap. All for this wonderful, and terrible melody.

Larger men acting on the intentions of their heart; domination. They seek something within themselves and find nothing but emptiness. So they take what they can find in others. Take it away forever. To leave behind a mound of dead; sleepy eyes contemplating the stars. Heaped like a winding stair they might climb to heaven.

The dominator cannot stand the corpses feeling while he is thus so unfilled. The light that remains in their motionless eyes. So they burn; and with the smoke goes the dreams of endearment, betterment and charm.

Madness for his smile. War for his familial fighting, self-destruction for his tears. Feelings any other man might have inherently received proffered to him by the cold hands of death.

What has he done? Oh God, what has this man done?? With the heart in his chest, his ten fingers, toes and feelings?

Ragged clothing hangs loosely on the father's frame. The mother bald and ailing. Their cheeks hollow, with jutting ribs and meatless arms. Roving eyes that did not see as the living saw; already devoid of life. The children play no longer-- but were taken to the showers; to wash themselves clean of the stain of humanity.

Mercy, please. Take them far away. Let the father win the bread and mother tend the house-- let the children grace the sunlight; feel the breeze and warmth of eternal summer... Take away the pain and the anguish. Take it all.

Will we shirk our bitter cup?
That sirens haunting cry?
Let this long summer last forever;
Oh God why must they die??