Son of Atropos
The boy
still soils himself
At night
Trained
to applaud violence
By day
Now
His
beautiful eyes sparkle
As they
seek out fleecy animals
Regardless
of what
They may
be stuffed with
Hands
Fragile
and small
Building
strength
To grip
and control
A spoon?
A fork?
Perhaps
one day
A pencil
But
Already
He has the
potential
To pull a
lever
A trigger
Of a metallic
death stick
The length
of his body
Its power
disguised by its
Size
With
fresh soil
Comes the
Gardener’s true
Art
To plant
in the human skull
The seeds
of ‘duty’
The bulbs
of delirium
Watered with blood
Fed with the light of seduction
A Sauceror’s
concoction
To create
a sprout
Fresh and
vigorous
Enthusiasm
and vitality
Bursting
at the seems
With a
heart
Blackened
and polished
By the blood
thirsty
Lips of
its
Creator
With no option
But to
thrive
To strive
To
survive
And to end
The lives
Of others
And only
Through
true contribution
He will fulfill his purpose
Lead them
to their final fate
Continue
the tradition
To poison
And reduce the Earth’s population.
©Shay
Crinkle 2014
Won second place on Poetry Space week 12 challenge:
http://www.poetryspace.co.uk/2014/02/week-12-entries-and-results/
Comments
Post a Comment