Flocks

I am not a jealous soul,
But I stare green-eyed at birds,
Those avian aviators,
Artists of the blue,
I envy them their wings,
I write you true,

Soaring the skies,
It must be such release,
Such catharsis,
They are not bound to one another,
Why do they stay in throngs?
Are they not individuals?

Do they not know they are free?
My envy screams up at them,
Predation should be no deterrent,
When the flock flies west,
Why not fly east?
Don’t waste those wings,

Coveting their feathery prom dresses,
I call out to them,
Please take me away,
Imitating their freedom,
I reach skyward,
Yet they flee in flocks.

My Pet Spider

I have an unusual companion,
She found her way to my den,
My fascination led me to let her stay,
She made her place in a dark corner,
A neat unassuming spot by a rafter,
Her prescence acts as sedative,
She silently watchs and keeps vigil,

Moths and flies are fodder,
Easily falling into her showy web,
The lamplight draws them in,
Their feeble minds drawn into our ploy,
Artwork becomes artifice,
A cradle becomes a pitfall,
She feasts on bodies as I sip full-bodied amber,

Powerful fangs and a few too many eyes,
Horror to some,
Elegance to me,
A perfect organism,
An imposing specimen,
She’s no Charlotte,
More of a Maleficent.

Assassin Bug

I think I spy an assassin bug,
Stalking amongst the twigs,
A reduviid killer,
Aspect of mantis,
Proclivity of spider,
A tiny predator of a huge world,
Or is it a tiny one?
Does the world belong to the bugs?

Cloaked in the corpses of ants,
Previous ravaged conquests,
Both armour and disguise,
Its proboscis twitches,
Secreting a lethal nectar,
Expecting to digest defeated internals,
Fodder for an emotionless killer,
I see it close in on an innocent,

Unsuspecting soul on a branch,
It strikes,
All wings and blades,
Corrosive saliva injected,
Reducing chitin to husk,
Its grim meal complete,
It gazes over at me,
Eyeing me hungrily,

Fight or flight?

Beast

One must hunt,
Kill to live,

On all fours,
Sniffing,
Snarling,
Baying for blood and gore,
All saliva and pheromones,

I must kill,
To feed on fur and tissue,
To sate the maw within,
The forest fires take over,
A hellish descent,

Through the grim mist,
I catch that scent,
A bouquet of optimism and sun,
Of autumn and seasoned venison,
A life to be cut short,

I see crimson,

The doe falls easily,
Hamstrung and gutted,
Formally so full of bounce and life,
Her eyes become as the void,
A rattling mirror of dark,

The bloody form contorts,
A doe no longer,
Prey no more,
But a murder,
My humanity torn.

Canine Thirst

In these trying times,
We are as hounds,
Fear has us becoming dogs,
With a canine thirst,
And a hyena hunger,

Society has become a pound,
Social distance growling,
Crawling around,
With an absent master,
Scavenging from the agora,

We feast ceaselessly,
In our doghouses,
With our mates,
And our feeble pups,
Our pack at home,

The dog bowls run low,
We pant from the panic,
Only animals afterall,
Beholden to primal urges,
We are as hounds,

A thought howls to my mind,
I do wonder,
How long until we feast upon each other?

Hateful God

There once was a God who learned to hate,
He grew tired of benevolence,
And perhaps of divinity too,
His creations only brought disappointment,

Beasts of fang and scale grew tiresome,
Achieving nothing but a tedious cycle of predator and prey,
His creations of the waves too,
Fins and scales offer no diversion,

He looks to the skies,
And hates the souls flying overhead,
Cursing at his avian creations,
Each wing-beat an assumed insult to his godhood,

Most of all he loathes those of his image,
Dominating a world he made,
Squabbling over salt and dirt,
Boring, boring and boring,

A bored God is a dangerous God,
A dissatisfied one even more so,
What if he decided to inject some amusement?
A cataclysm there,
A flood here,
Or a plague over there,
Something a hateful God could unleash upon his subjects of ire,

What if this God decided to throw his toys away,
And started anew?