Eichmann's Trial
A Study of Personal Morality
I was afraid
About myself
It was the moment I realised
Just what I am capable of
The atrocities that I could commit
The hurt I could inflict
Genocide and homicide
And everything else
Horrific scenes of screams
And motherless children crying
The shoes and the glasses
The cracks and fractures
We aren't that different
He and I
We're both just monsters
In different colours
I could've chosen to be him
And murdered a million
Now I have the choice
Should I condemn him
Could I condemn him
There's something stopping me
I know what it is
What's changed
The fact that now, of all times
I can relate
With his fate in the balance
I have come to terms with the fact
I am exactly like he is
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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