The Fox’s Feast: Post-famine

The Fox’s Feast: Post-famine

Devoured by ballrooms of the arrogant machine

Clocks count the fox in time to a rhythm 

Systemic suicide that sets the alarm for a common thief 

to make her grand entrance,

resistance is key.

The minutes watch the seconds as they creep

upon the hours of gravity, owned 

towers that chime through grit and bone

We unfortunately are not alone.

The coat, a pocket for our bodies, 

the gates that take our young

the stolen mechanics, wandering concepts

impatient hands folded for unrelenting death.

I will march for my brood, sly, through the jaws 

of a union so broken and fragile.

Dirty and abused. I flinch, still I fight

I am lost and found and gone again

Fastened tightly to a wrist, my fist twists through 

the angry detours of the rabbit’s hole.

You are my enemy as I am yours.

Hatred burns with poetic inversions of inflexible proportions

I will devour you and all that you are.

JP
2017

"If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared." -- Niccolo Machiavelli