Knock a moth off a door,
it falls, and hides in a precarious position
in the bright deep night, because of
your action. A foraging scorpion
chances upon the mite, and eats it.
Did you cause the death of the insect?
Or were you a victim of the moth’s fate?
Does the act stain your soul?
Will you ever know?

Knock a child off a chair,
he falls, and hides in a fetal position
in the deep night bright, you’ve accomplished
living murder. Ridiculed, muted, angry,
conditions curry a serial killer.
Did you cause the suffering of his victims?
Or were you a destined provider of death?
Does the thought torture your soul?
Will you admit you know?

Knock a world out of square,
it falls, and hides from its new position,
in the night bright deep, intolerance
massacres conscience. Obsessive hating
contrives to consume morality.
Did you cause the agony of millions?
Or were you a doomed dupe of misfortune?
Does the atrocity deaden your soul?
Will you want to know?

Erin Moen
9/11/03
Copyright 2003 ©