The truth.

Your patriotic attempts
at jingoism -
in all their couched and pathetic venom -
will not stir the
ignorance
within
my heart.

I will crush you
like you don't expect;
flags will wave,
but they will be covered in blood:
the blood of you,
and your children,
and your enemies,
and your children's enemies,
and those of conquered lands;

and the dead who've tried in vain to cease
the incessant marches of unreason,
and disdain for moral character.

I will put you under my foot
and crush you within your
Reichstags and temples,
and churches -
long before you even wish to burn them down yourselves,
and blame their destruction on foreign entities
with nefarious motivations.

I will not get rheumy-eyed
at the thought of
my country
and all of its honours -
mostly terrors in fancy clothing.

I will not tremble;
nor will I remain impassive.
I will shoot from my mouth
flames of truth
that can vaporise mountains
and put the fear of all desolation
into the eyes of tyrants,
and dragons,
and despots,
and monarchs -
and even God.

For the truth is my weapon,
and I wield it with pride;
indiscriminately.

Who knows? -
I might even be its next target.
But it will cut me down with glory -
and I will let it.
And it will be taken up by other
ne'er-shaking hands,
that will strike you dead
without spilling any of the bile that animates you.

Your flesh is for the whims of time -
the hourglass -
and the seagulls,
and your rabid friends,
who will weep at your demise,
after tearing you apart like the feeble dog you are.

And new life will blossom,
and be bruised,
and sour,
and steer from tranquility;
but maybe we can deter the next generation
from devouring your lies;
instead, digesting them fully,
and offering them to the earth,
in a thankful and even promise,
that flowers might grow in the most acid peat.

Like growth,
maggots thrive in the midst of decay.
But maggots die,
whilst change is present
in the nuances of each new burst of life.