From the work-in-progress: "Somethings, Nothings and Inner Stirrings"
|There is a rotting carcass|
of a solitary calf,
splayed upon the center
of an overshadowed path.
The crimson mountains glimmer
as the day succumbs to night;
steaming pools of life assemble
calling insects to their plight.
Sheets of tiny humming wings ascending from the wood;
they come to feed, they come to breed,
as tradition provides that they should.
Black specks invade the surface
of the slowly turning meat.
Watch them as they vomit,
kill, feast and excrete.
Time trudges forward,
ignorant to genocide.
Two years or was it thousands?
The lifeless, living calf, at great length has collapsed,
returned to soil, relieved of toil;
the sphere can now relax.
I turn away from a gentle heap
of sweet and thriving earth.
I glance into morning light
Across a field of corpses,
one hundred miles in girth.