The headlines scream in static tongues,
A body cold, a name that stung –
Charlie Kirk has met his fate,
The tale unfurls; the panels wait.
A candled grin crackles the right –
For whom to blame in morning’s light?
No migrant shade, no foreign hue,
No “Trans agenda” to construe.
The myth-machine begins to churn:
“He must have learned to hate, not yearn
At college halls by Marxist fire,
Or in secret, queer desire.”
But mirrors, blindfolded, avert their gaze –
Fearing the truth of familiar malaise.
A white hand, steeped in rightward thought,
Ends a life for reasons fraught.
How strange, this scramble for a mask –
To fit the “other,” to make the task
Of mourning safe behind the lies,
Ignoring where the evil lies.
For every truth that peels away
Another fiction takes its place –
Blind bigotry cannot allow
Its monsters to have a white man’s face.
So let the eulogies grow wild –
Excuses dressed, histories compiled –
But there is silence, shamed and stark:
It takes one’s own to snuff the spark.
So true ..