The butterfly effect today morning
Was in the flutter of a pigeon’s wings
outside my window.
A winter morning
Like many mornings I haven’t seen
clouded by manic evenings
and pensive nights
In walled cities.
The grave isn’t yet ready to bury
A mother’s cry through a history
Of manmade separation
Or tumultuous waves of terror
Or hungry metal and bone
Or a poisoned meal for the famished
Dig more
Feel the morning roar
When it can echo
Migrate when you can stay
Run when you can walk
Bite when you can speak
O, mangled monster of ringed fingers
How much for an eye
A tooth
A finger, perhaps?
Weighed on the ruins of incomplete
histories
Replete with hedonistic satiation
Customised to
taste - 'Medium rare'
Dear bare bodied infant
Whose arms will you sleep in?
