A Kernel of Truth

An old story. Lived again.

It begins with a kernel of truth.
A real grievance.
A true injustice.

One small kernel, in a field of many.
So they tend it—
With distortions.
To make it grow. To make it matter.
To make it serve.

And it grows.
Outside the curve.
Visible. Commanding.

But it’s not enough.
So they twist further—
Until no one remembers the truth.

Then they uproot, cut, and silence
All rival truths.

Our kernel needs space, light, soil, and air.
But we have no spare.
So we burn the rest—
Until our kernel stands alone, bare.

It gets all our light, soil, and care.
It grows more. Tall. Alone.

But still—
No fruit.

Old books warned.
Of fire without harvest.
Of zeal without wisdom.
Of truth turned tyrant.

So we ban them—
Those who remember, question, and warn.

Gone.

But there is no fruit.

People are next.
First, those who wrote.
Then, those who read.

The books burn first.
Then people who dare.

Still—no fruit.
The kernel is bare.

Regardless: burn more!
And still, we cheer.
As scarecrows rise above our best,
And humans are cleared like pests.

It’s not our business.

After all, it began
With a kernel of truth—
Right in our backyard.

We started by watching.
Then we helped.

We burn fields, books, and people.

Still—no fruit.

But we don’t waver.
We burn for truth.
For freedom.
For my kernel.

But it’s not enough.

Now,
burning
is our fruit.

A story as old as fire.
Lived again.
All for a kernel of truth.
That bore no fruit.
But burned.
The world.