Atrocity

A fragment on the chorus of screams, the silence of stone and what bleeds into the future.

Atrocity does not resolve. 
It can never balance.
Never rectifies. 
It only coils the field
into another cycle: 

Twisting it tight, 
like a spiral within a spiral, 
arming the future 
for further atrocity.

We are taught to think 
of atrocity as event— 
a singular violation. 
A delineated anomaly 
to be named, 
condemned, 
and outlived.

But it is the pulse 
that reveals the wound.
It bleeds— 
blood becomes the rule. 
The rule becomes a frame. 
And the frame forgets—
it was once wrapped 
around a chorus of screams.

Atrocity is the growth 
of a rotten rootwork 
hidden in ensanguinated soil. 
Thick with fear, 
slick with hatred, 
soaked in sedimented tears, 
and threaded 
through bone and bodies
lost beneath the violence.

Its shape is unmistakable. 
It speaks a language 
every witness knows. 
It is felt in the marrow
at any distance, 
from any time.

In the logic of the perpetrator
naming is resistance
and remembering is radical.

Power built on atrocity 
requires that history forgets. 
And those who spill blood 
will also spill ink, 
and then more blood— 
Pen and sword both, 
directed at those who record.
Those who report.
Those who remind. 

Buried beneath justifications. 
Draped in flags. 
Sanitized with silence. 
Threatened into absence.

Atrocity may end in quiet
but something in the rubble remembers. 
The ruins do not forget their stains.

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