Ted Kaczynski: Unabomber
Windowless, mere slits of light squinting through
grey, shrunken boards, his vision of the good
the dead, his spirit had contracted to
a one-room cabin in a Stygian wood.
No creature comforts, only furniture
of wadding, wires, and sticks of dynamite,
the landscape of a mind with heart so pure
no Tempter could beguile his will from Right.
His isolation, he knew, was the price
he’d pay for loving humankind too well;
to spread the word was worth the sacrifice,
for who but he could save the world from Hell?
So “then’s” no good—it has to happen now;
for that he’ll sweat until the blood drips from his brow.
Through Self’s Veneer
About Robert J. Nolan
© Robert J. Nolan, 2010