Know the killers by their words. They use too many, and invert them. They speak a language of chaos to stir confusion. Once frothed to full foment, they descend from their towers to feed and grow fat on the blood of lambs. By morning, they have disappeared to clean themselves and then reappear above the carnage, lamenting. This mess, this mess, they say. For shame, they say, and lob another theory into the crowd, the usual balloons of enhanced security and maximum efficiency. These float on the raised hands of the assembled, who cheer. The speakers smile, digesting last night’s feast. Tonight, repeat.
Meanwhile, a haggard band of constant shepherds gather under cover of remaining trees, to tremble before the lives remaining, and abide.
Perfectly said. You have written a description I will remember,