February 6, 1947, a Birthday Poem

On February 6, 1947 there was a fierce winter storm. A taxi driver refused to let a woman in labor get into his cab. Later that day she will give birth to a narcissistic murder; a demolisher of families, and a destroyer of lives yet to be conceived. The world received this mercenary soul without fanfare. He would become a merciless and egotistical annihilator of the hopes, the loves and dreams of others.

He would become an insidious abuser playing games in his idle hours that offered a dark style of entertainment. He would strangle off the breath of life from certain people by imposing heartless controls, exploitations and manipulations which crushed, crippled, and ended many lives. He never confronts his prey. He is a coward that attacks from behind and in the dark, hiding from the truth using rumors and lies. This is a man who feels nothing, no measure of compassion, for his fellow humans.

He created a familial concentration camp environment and maintained it using his fishy tentacles of political and corporate clout. He starved and threatened the prisoners into submission but behind his back they longed to see him shot to death with his own golden gun. They patiently waited for the day when they could pass close by his final sickbed, gaze down on his finally failing body with unforgiving, unsympathetic faces demand that the universe exact justice for his crimes against them and simply prepare to dance at his troubles with utter joy.

Pity this man for on every February sixth he is once again confronted with his own mortality. He must on that day again face the fact that his life, just as all others, is fleeting and limited in duration regardless of how many motor cars, boats and homes one owns. He must once again confront the knowledge that he is impotent to control, exploit and manipulate his own end, his own death. He must know that life is not a metaphorical Monopoly game and that he gravely harmed innocent people just to please and further his own ends.

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