Human Farm
Like the dog sick in the streak of His sultry sun,
Like the cow mad in the muck of His molten moon,
Like the pig hung by the heels in the heat of His hollow hills,
Like the goat feral in the face of His foul fields,
Plan my funeral
for I, too, am vulnerable to a state of decay—
Sowing His seeds of misery in the pit of my belly,
cultivating blight within
Breeding plague inside me already,
watching as fresh rot sprouts before Him
Omnipotent is He, but so is He wicked
to make men mortal—
His power is sickness;
We are children of the grave, we must accept,
feeble beings of His neglect,
and when He commands for us to pay respect,
we live to die, we mustn’t forget
Copyright © Ira Babbles | Year Posted 2018
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