In the withered heart of Ayn Rand’s world, the weak, the hungry,
The violated, the broken, the disorganized are condemned,
They have no brothers
Unlettered children, tiny, lonely, light-starved beings,
Like mushrooms fed on excrement, are free:
Free to sicken, free to die.
In unheated rooms, left gumming the rind of life,
The terrors of the elderly are of no consequence.
The old and the feeble, the slow of foot and the dim of wit have no place.
In Ayn’s world, life itself is their death camp
No boxcars are needed.
They have arrived.
David Seaton – August – 2012
Cross posted from: http://seaton-newslinks.blogspot.com