Black Bloc

The night the city burned, I sat on your floor listening like a child as you told me our god must be Janus. A face for authority, for the frightened middle, and another for casting stones, for cleansing the temple. I’ve tried to learn the tenets of this new faith, but I am no Martin Luther, no prophet of peace. When I march, I march in black, a mourning hawk dressed in the fatigues of protest: hood marking me an adherent of the old ways, mask to keep out miasma, gloves so as not to leave a trace of my touch. My creed has only two lines: Fight for those who won’t raise their fists, work towards a world that does not need you.


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