Sunrise At Buchenwald Poem by Michael David Morrissey

Hail, Sol Invictus.

Pray tell what mortal hand or eye
could frame such irony,
read from the inside:
Jedem das Seine.

We will not tolerate
outrageous conspiracy theories.
Preemptive war
and torture
will set you free.

On this drizzle of a day
the old god struggles
across cluttered cyberskies
fortunately returning
but still the iron stands.

It does not melt like buildings
struck by airplanes
or vaporize or sink into the earth
like airplanes
on certain days.

Reason is but a mode the mind abides in.
The rest is dark, like blood.