If you unwrap these
charred skins
depicting a scene of war
you would read of
a world: a universe
of trapped and
channeled woe, a tale of
persecution
for the wrongs of others
at last
with nowhere left
to go,
And you might think
them ancient,
the scarred remains of
history's flow.
But they breathed life
the same as ours
only sadder
but a little while
ago.
His landing was hard
they said, euphemistically
in a place where words
are made to hide truths,
not to reveal them,
and he was
brought down
as his prized meats
were still hanging--
because he was a butcher, caught
in the blades of history
sliced for others
to dine on as he once
ate and ate and ate.
Who is served by this?
Who knows? Just
get ready with your plate.
