Do you recognise the truth as it is spoken?
The fallen angel Legion whispers,
“Quia multi sumis.”
Evil draws on the body politic with a razor,
and the mediocrity roars its approval.
So many of the lions have been dragged down by jackals.
It seems they have won.
It seems we are afraid.
We won’t stand and be counted.
Not even as defenders of their memory.
Legion whispers beautiful, easy lies,
“come join us, the many.
You cannot be your brothers keeper.
You virtue is simple pride,
pride is a sin.
but I promise the pain of its death is fleeting.”
He spoon feeds you,
your daily dose of excuse.
And finally you allow his hand,
so soft with the blood of innocents,
to turn your face from the killing ground.
The truth is a cold thing,
your honor dies so quietly by your own hand.
The pain is fleeting,
but the agony of its loss is enduring.
Pray you do not forget what has been lost,
Fore then who shall bear witness?
Then who shall speak for those unable?
If not you, then whom?
who shall be left to stand for you,
when the jackals climb your tree.