Where there be monsters

"They aren't animals,"
he said as he stared at the news.
"They wouldn't do that,"
as the print bled into the neighbouring pages.
"Life is worth too much more for it to be true,"
as the screaming children wept into the arms of the adult, faced away from the camera.
"Words can barely capture the poetry of loss,"
as I lay close to tears on the white sheets,
in a summer daze,
cold under my sheets.
Every morning brings my tea and the bitter knowledge
that there is no news I can look forward to.
"Bodies found under a rock in the desert,
faces turned towards their waiting mothers,
whose faces are cloaked with veils of anticipation,
and premonitions of impending loss,"
and what is more do I find the horrors within me?
"Can I hold a blade to the light, and find passion thrusting in anger and ego-lust?"
The evenings grow nearer,
as the old wisdom also palls,
can my grandparents help me philosophize on why the young years
of a life are to be slashed?
"And to the wandering minstrels singing songs of insanity,
roaming the worlds streets, unrequited in love and hate,
are you not worth the food on my table?"
Rhetorical.