I’ve seen what he does with those hands and I don’t like it one bit. But I’m just a dumb animal, what do I know? I’ve seen what he does to other animals: torture, and the slow kills, and all the sick pleasure, the knife in those hands butchering still struggling beasts. At least when my wild brothers hunt they do it out of necessity and with grace. What he does to his own kind is worse; the women, those poor women that done him no wrong, crying, resisting, and finally giving in to his perversions; held down by those rough, calloused hands, sobs echoing though the house. (And they call me a brute) All the while every Sunday hypocritically clutching the Bible with those hands, those awful hands. But those same hands deliver my kibble and water and the occasional pat on the head, so I don’t question things. But I’ve seen what he does with those hands and I don’t like it not one bit.
Reason for writing:
--a statement both on man vs. Nature, and on blind faithBirth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Sonya *cancer*.