by Sy Roth
The tired ones hung back
walk-weary lines of them
snaking the rear
shuffling gait
young ones their crutches.
Youthful steps moved the others forward
heads mounted to their goal
inattentive to the rear.
Amalek swore to his soldiers
he would preserve them,
desiccate the healthy,
consume the old and bent.
Godless ones licked their lips,
for the laggards were a tempting lot
easily consumed
swept away before so
the others could mourn.
They ate the rear with
cannibalistic gusto.
Youth buried beneath their weak,
laved in their blood.
A storm of tears unglued the skies.
Men razed their dreams,
the meek,
the weak,
the infirm,
the young
lost in a morass of ego.
Amalek feared no god,
only himself.
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