Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

don't speak to me in parables,
nor with the pious tongue of angels.
your faith, your hope, your charity
pales before the blood guilt
in the stockyard of your heart.
witness, the paragon of arrogance,
who wields the maul like a judge's gavel
condemning and consuming, like gods
the fate of all we desire.
the death stroke - fait accompli.
the rendering of life into geometric forms
sliced thin, for your convenience -
cooked to perfection, in the eternal ovens
of the square jawed -
in the city of wide shoulders,
where dinner is served, promptly at eight -
without its frozen face of horror.
tell me, where lies the soul of mercy
in the stockyard of your heart?

"tell me, where lies the soul of mercy in the stockyard of your heart?"

dare i say..?

i like your revision of the placement of tell me. thanks.