In the crazy,
Blood-red,
Room of history,
Nothing makes sense.
The turbulence of
Fact and fiction
Spins out of control.
The brawling brats
Spawned by
Religion and expediency,
Scrawl and scratch,
To tear the truth apart.
They see no contradiction
In the irony of their embrace.
As they pause,
Each looks the other way.
The question is forgotten.
Their only definition
Is disgrace.                              © Will Barton 2009