Right Wail

 

Right Wail

 

What trampling thing blunders here?

Some maddened brute

Cornered and thrashing.

A rampaging swine belligerent,

Its roars, soiling the night,

Unintelligible meanderings hurtful

And still meager.

Incautious beast,

It’s spoor smeared generously,

Claiming domain with its stink,

Leaving the clearly marked trail.

Now follow the guardians circling,

Penning the thing in,

Pinning it down

With its own claw and sting.

It senses the net laid,

Snares it made for itself,

Cast widely,

Through pride and indiscretion.

It calls for aid from the rabble,

Gibbering creatures clumsy,

Ill-prepared denizens

Of places without light

Educated in the greasiest nonsense.

Their babblings run furiously into the ether,

While their bank accounts run dry there.

They support their growing hysteria

With sacred text they have never read,

And thus, do not comprehend.

To the beast they will remain nameless,

Faceless,

And always at many arms’ length.

For he knows the vermin they are,

Like himself in every way,

Simply less bloated,

Or protected with empty assets,

Now exposed and stripped away.

What is to become of this creature?

How long will its bleats and sobs linger?

It will never be silent, no,

But it can be boxed away,

To fume and sputter at unhearing walls,

Until it consumes itself at last,

With the lies it tried,

And finally failed with.

There may be some satisfaction in that.

 

Cliff Lake 1/27/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024