I heard tell of a witch,
A maiden in this harvest season,
A lady in an obsidian regalia,
Where she walks the flock congregates,
A winged host of subjects,
Upon her word do they fly,
She walks paths lost to man,
She is the mother of ravens,
She is never alone,
She is nature,
She is death,
She carries the murder in her soul,
The Morrigan
Let me off,
My life has become this wheel,
I grow tired of this rotating farce,
Each and every rung is the same,
Cheap plastic and flimsy build,
Run round,
Run round,
The scenery never changes,
The same streets and bus routes,
The same grey skies and pained mornings,
Let me off this hamster wheel,
My rodent heart could burst,
Taken by the horror of the whole thing,
Chance would be a fine thing.
Some of us escape society,
Canines of every shade and shape,
Runaway hounds and beasts,
Shredding our way out of vanilla cages,
Longing to run with more wild packs,
Individuals with no collars,
We’re bad dogs,
Authority wants us on a leash,
Normality reaches out with nets,
But we tore off those fingers,
And ran free,
Slavering and howling,
Daily life becoming wildlife,
Dodging slings and dog whistles,
Animal control in public form,
We follow sweet scents of unrestraint,
Tonight we are not docile pets,
But wolves on the run.
I waltzed upon a woodland path,
To release some serotonin,
To be one with the natural backdrop,
Between the crowds of bark giants,
I chanced upon a wonderful sight,
I had been granted an audience,
A once in a lifetime opportunity,
To meet the duke of this wood,
A regal beast of wild aristocracy,
A titanic stag of primeval physique,
Towering over even the treetops,
His antlers scratched sermons into the clouds,
Treatises on woodland matters,
He stood upon ivory legs commanding respect,
Purely demanding reverence from all,
He stared into my urban soul,
As if in pity,
I could only bow,
A newfound awe crosses my mind,
A lord of nature has blessed me,
With a new heart of dew,
Pulsing with vitality/
We are not dire wolves,
We do not run in packs,
We’re not predators,
We are wildebeest,
We run in herds,
We are fodder,
Fearful of the brush all around,
Unsafe in our carnivorous habitat,
And like wood lice,
We retreat to our homely crevices,
Unsafe in our forms of chitin,
At the whiff of any danger,
Scurrying away from the intrusive light,
Decrying the suns ambush,
To this world we are prey,
We are wildebeest and wood lice.
From the brush I rise,
Segmented fury,
Mandibles bared,
All instinct and hunger,
I am predatory,
Make no mistake,
I hunger,
My venom hungers,
My limbs long to rip and tear,
Rodents and avians and insects,
Asunder a hundred ways,
All are meant for these cold eyes,
You felt my approach,
Tingles up your spine,
Muted tittering in the greenery,
A hundred needles across your foot,
Was that me there?
Or am I already on your shoulder?
Do we appear as pondlife to them?
Those alleged councillors of repute,
From their gilded office above us,
With their manifestos made of bread,
Are we just guppies and tadpoles?
Schools of fish with empty heads,
Covered in muck from the streets,
Our murky waters,
Polluted and trash-ridden as they are,
They drop breadcrumbs down to us,
Placations and silvered words,
And giggle as we bite and nip each other,
Tearing scales from one another,
Amused as we keep hunting our fellows,
Not looking above the surface,
They smirk at the chum they bestowed us,
The bubbles trying in vain to show us the way,
To where our real predators reside.
With our mouths we give life,
Poets and scholars and layman all,
Tongues as bestiaries,
Aural gates to the world,
Words taking on a vitality of their own,
We release all manner of beasts,
Doves of kind words on wing,
Tones of rage joining the conversation as lions,
Rodents spewing forth as timid dialogue,
Riddles in the form of octopuses,
Speech is an animal kingdom,
We speak lifeforms into being,
Our words becoming both predator and prey,
Lives given and taken in our communion,
Coexisting and hunting in turn.
I once chased from my den a toad,
As swift as a garuda,
Into the dank green of the yard,
A soft mist enshrouded the lawn,
It served as a suitable backdrop,
For our dance of drama,
Our filmic action chase,
This little green man,
He was of singular proportion,
An amphibian aristocrat,
I pursued him,
Through a garden I no longer recognised,
The lawn gave way to a bizarre realm,
As if walking into a dream,
The toad was there,
But somehow changed,
Elongate limbs and a humanoid stylistic leaning,
Colours of every prism swam around like tadpoles,
He began a chorus of frog song,
Melancholy to be sure,
But somehow filled with magic,
I lock eyes with him,
His bulbous oculi grow ever more violet,
I feel his tongue strike out at my thoughts,
Amphibian metaphysicality,
As his crescendo amps up,
I feel lightheaded,
Blackness pounces and descends,
I awaken far away,
With nary a memory of mine own,
Just the stink of sorcery upon my brow.
I appear an easy target,
A humble scorpion,
All gaunt limbs and modest in size,
But watch your step friend,
I am no prey,
I have a sturdy exoskeleton,
A chitinous fortress with cracks,
Sundering blows from previous predators,
Cohorts with jaws of their own,
Partners turned to cannibalism,
A scorpion suffers no harasser,
This critter has claws,
Twin pincers ready to return your spite,
Verbal blow for blow,
An arachnid feels no pity,
But perhaps you see yourself as the apex,
So I warn you through mandibles,
Persevere in your incursion,
And you invite a final barb,
Venom straight to the heart,
A scorpion does not die.
