In some corners of the internet

some brothers spill their rage onto an epitaph

yet to be written, a message carved

by time on the tombstones of terror.

I want to ask, is your anger a dirge mistimed,

or a muttering of protests drowned by noise?

Or what is to be lost if we swoop both low and high

in the face of fury? But I desire silence

in a humane verse, reading half-truths

from those who fully know the past

without knowing themselves.