THE LIVING ARE THE DOGS OF WAR
Let them bathe in the blood of another,
it will not be mine and they will not
send their own kin or kind
off to fight in their wars
for privilege and an office
on the sixty sixth floor.
Their power is the hammer.
Their wealth the anvil they beat against.
And we,
the living are the molten rod
they rage against.
Trying to form and shape us
into something different
than what we are.
They ever try
to pry more,
always more,
from an earth
that has drank her fill
of the living’s blood.
She is throwing up now,
back in their faces,
and they do not recognize it
though it be the very thing they desire,
blood ancient blood of souls long departed
from this dying place shocked and awed
to submission by their beauty.
A gorging gorgeous
that the living will never know.
Does not want to know or have.
The rich, the famous, the fabulous,
on their red carpet ride long stroll
over the blood of men forced to war
for them now long dead.
While the living scream
in a rage no more.
We care little for either hammer or anvil
for they have not got the strength
to wield the weight of the hammer
against our Master
who has a’ready shaped
us into something that
refuses to die for their
fear and amusement.
Canines they are,
but no, they are no match for
the dogs of war.
That is us, the living.
They are pack dogs
tail tucked in fear
knowing there is a line
they can not cross
less they be harmed in understanding
there are them they can not control.
Us the living ready now
Now ready to turn on them
to shred their body magnificent.
© M Durfee
12/9/10
