Dry mouths tear up the ground. Little remains to scream. The toxic beast has devoured the dove, the hungry winds are sopping them up with tongues as rough as death. They've shred the money into plastic leaving charity without clothes. Sounds like the end of them, faces without names or use, concrete beasts as far as the eye can see. Used to be easier to tell when hunger reared its head, with each growl the sight that was old looked familiar, shrunken, tattered and mad, even angels have turned away from our mess. The hordes look sad, torn feathers line the streets, picture frames of a human family, dove’s blood smearing the glass. Used to shock us, numb our eyes to the suffering, caused us to shudder, wince, scream and ache. Used to shock our bodies, these careworn faces now mirroring ours and twisting their bent limbs down like a song made of wire. © 2010 by mark pr...
(The Weaver's Song)