The Fall of the Liberals

It was a mass extinction. Self-inflicted. Or you might call it mutual homicide by neglect.

From the sky looking down, the pattern of the bodies scattered across each other almost looks beautiful, a mutated end goal, a patchwork quilt of every color imaginable, all types of bodies, all types of possibilities… now expired.

Great ideas trapped in brains, hearts full of blood, their heads propped up on each other’s stomachs, hands across each other’s chests, as their still-open-eyes look to the clouds rolling in.

From afar, it would appear to be a choreographed final act of love, a legion of selfless soldiers looking out for each other. They called themselves warriors.

But if you were to witness the world in the last moments before the silence, you would hear a chorus of voices giving breath to a single inquiry:

Who is hurt the most?

Who is hurt the most?

Who is hurt the most?

Who is hurt…

And as the song of the liberals disappeared into the stormy air, most, if not all of them, will have died with their hands raised, and pointing in different directions.

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