Their Pound of Flesh

We once raised our voices

crying please our

feet have faltered.

Look now on the nails

curled and rotted black

to the quick.

Look now on the yellowed

puss that runs through these

most southern veins.

Look now at the black and

purple ankles swollen and

floating amongst shattered

tendons.

You replied with an arsenal

and amputated our feet.

We layed in the dust screaming

for a tourniquet to staunch

the pistoning arteries that

pumped blood towards limbs

long gone.

You replied with hand gernades

to carterize the bloody wounds

and staunch the voices in our

throats.

Now the dust has mixed with our

intestines where the torso lies open

to the sky.

We whisper only for a mercy kill,

but your dagger’s arc we still

don’t see.

Instead, you sit upon

our chests strangling out the

last found breath all the while

demanding one more pound

of flesh.


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