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
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