whether he wants to die or not
is irrelevant.
his office, the scene of the crime,
tells a tale of all intellectuals,
the shelves piled high with treason,
the computer washed over with sin,
the speakers literally dripping with blasphemy.
it is not like he underestimated the risk.
their dark suits embody
the arm of a shadow
hell-bent on growing
into darkness itself:
scratching out every lightbulb
disgracing even the sun
with no intended stop
until even the idea of a photon
-dissidence, compassion!-
ceases to stir a single soul.
the gentleman stirs in his seat.
home, perhaps he expected
or the cold bare grind of the streets.
but most ironic that they kill him
in the very chair
that sewn into the cushions
lies hidden the secret
to eternal enlightenment:
what we would have known about it
burnt with the building.
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