A voice or animal spirit
or other being of great impatience
screams into my ear until I wake up,
demanding that my next words
must absolutely be
about how karmic debt
is always carried in blood.  

I attempt to resist. I say 
that I don’t believe that it is, that we can rise above
such impulsive belief.

The great impetuous force
screams again that my own belief
is subverted by fact, and how
is blood not an obvious river for inevitable war
when it carries so much iron?

I am not yet awake enough to argue
so I draw my knife.
How are we now, Great Force?

It screams that I am to address it
as Lord, that I am to listen
and obey, tht I am to await further instructions
as it wails around seeking 
a justly identified enemy past or present
to hate and damage up to and including death.

I want to ask if we are doomed, but it screams
that I need to be writing. Tales of atrocity, it screams. 
The enemy’s name will as always be added when it is known.