The Feast

by | Dec 2, 2015 | Poetry | 0 comments

All gathered around the victim,
helpless raising its head
in vain trying
to catch a sight of one last savior—
the eyes blackened by fires
everywhere raging inside its heart;
it was not the dream of not dying
it did not occur, not to be a foolish dreamer,
but the wish to die alone in peace;
roaring, threatening howls and barks
around for a share or a bigger one
rip every meat splinter off every bone
to dine and drink on that same table—
prostrate the victim looked in pity and shame
for a devourer after being full
will slow down and soon become the victim.

Silence but for the hacking and biting,
for my eyes and my eyes alone
were left behind to watch the massacre
and all my brothers have gone to war;
no flashes no cameras no TV shows
why stand on ceremony anymore,
the jaws are squared, the teeth are sharpened
nothing left of greed is hidden,
all is out in the open
to devour the piece that’s all that’s left,
and long for a sweet siesta like wolves
no one can really sleep at all—
their daggers hidden behind their backs
concealed by their godly silky tongue;
they all wait for one big mother,
or one big brother or uncle
to come tuck them in and take over;
they do not know those have been here all along—
like a lifelong whore dreaming,
one night she would lose her virginity.

I refused to join the feast,
I refused to go to war;
with but a few I stayed behind
I wish I had never stayed at all
to watch this domestic massacre—
domestic knives hurt way much more;
the same blood is spilled,
the floor is a masterpiece;
it hurts to look— you think it is your heart,
down there, started to bleed;
all legs and thighs
all beards and breasts,
chaotic as the nature of man;
you never guess who’s into whom—
all that is left in there to see
are the lords of war so drunk around
a table they have been feeding upon,
and the victim’s last breath
has already been drawn—
the dead body was my own
the dead body was my country
the dead body was my home

December 2, 2015


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