Spooked

When plagues come, people kill each other
Because that’s the killing we’re good for.

We’re frightened fighting minute angels—
The gods of the invisible world,

Too small to crush but easy to fear.
We know our hatreds for each other,

But it adds flavor to our terrors
To not comprehend an opponent

With no sacred groves, no fixed beliefs,
No identifying cults or clothes—

To peer through agnostic microscopes,
To not know what faith is worshipped here.