Lore, Midweek, Poem, Scenic, Short story

Repeating failure.

The colours changed but the world stayed the same.

Watching one panic fade and another rise in its place, it’s enough to make one dizzy, if it weren’t already sickening.

The same faces go by, scurry back and forth, seeking salvation at every promise. What amusement, what fortunes it must bring to those who sign would promise to save all that would flock to it and obey.

And how they flock, and how the obey, and how they pour hatred and scorn at those not running back and forth as they.

Were it in my power, I might have once considered saving them, not from some new great terror which follows them, not from the promise of what would save them, an elixir, an order, no. I would have saved them from themselves once.

But their panic has no bounds, their scorn hurled with such rage it is as though their eyes stare daggers at the one who surely killed all their kin a thousand times over.

There is nothing good to save in those who have given themselves over so eagerly without a pause or second thought to that with demands, terrorizes and promises.

There is no reason to save them, for there is nothing to save.

What pride they might one day have is hollow and all for show. For they would know and justify, and I would know and remember, the deranged terror which they are so easily entranced by.

A liability to any group, a shame for any ancestors. The cowards find virtue in their cowardice. The obedient, pride in their certainty that they chose to do as was commanded.

I have watched enough. It is time to leave them to their fate.

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