Poor Sap
A hungry beast edges,
coming for you, sent by a
shining, busy man;
you can do nothing.
The dingy spit spills
from claws that look like
spinning sawblade dinner plates.
An oven belly smolders so brightly
for your flesh.
Truly, I am sorry...
But your druid spirit will be shredded,
sacrificed to Frankenstein,
and machined nonchalantly.
Come now, there's no fruit in struggling;
their smoking fires are funeral pyres for the
dead
god
of
nature
I can see it in your face.
Please, poor sap,
you are trapped.
The sad truth is
you'll never know
why fall leaves you.
Copyright © Andrew Gallagher | Year Posted 2008
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment