Ninety-Five
95%
John walked out the front door.
The screen slammed behind him.
It was very loud in the stillness of the day.
The man looked out at his land before him.
It was his father's land,
and his father's, and his father's land...
Traditions held for generations,
never broken, deemed unbreakable,
by wind, or storm.
Often on his knees in the night, to bring the rain.
Often under his breath, a word to his maker.
Yet this day, he was quiet.
He was one with everything, like the very air...
waiting to be filled with life, and only smelling of death.
The paper in his hand...
clutched in a grip of iron,
was a notice by the government.
"Kill all but five percent of your herd." and it continued...
"We will pay you to starve the rest of the world,
sit back and be glad you are not among those,
that will die of empty bellies."
Followed by the last line... "You are safe."
His fist turning white,
the blood forced from his hand,
by the tight grip he held,
in a personal effort
to strangle the words of evil
The man would not do it.
He would not kill one cow ahead.
He would not kill one cow behind.
The system, the shoppers on cloud 9
that demand compliance,
will need to send the rain,
of fire, as the man had tired...
of going along.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
