Hunting Births

If I were the compassionless sort without regard for flowing sanctity, and if hunger more dire than thirst rocked through me with stings true, I would think of babies as morsels of puffy flesh more succulent than the sinewy knots riddled with tendons once formed as joints since adults bend knees with ardor too vast to grasp pure honesty. When snacking upon that treasure trove of future’s calling, I laugh at the clamor of rattles and chimes since baby chops prove delicate bits, stippled with rivulets of soft fat yet to be flexed in purpose or pleasure, and children blinded by innocence never see the devil in my blood-streaked eyes or the cherub on my shoulder. Once sated by my feast of infants, my hollow chest will rumble loud till my questing once more lumbers to pastel quarters of babbling coos. I shall round up more tinkering grubs still swaddle-bound by fabric most cloying, inviting my navy blood to boil with pathogens unleashed by centuries of lust, greed and avarice until prospect staggers lost.