#6668

by Robert S. Harding - Sagittarius

	While a bull is killed for sport
	Chickens and pigs are bred for breakfast,
	Because an ant is crushed for nothing
	That a man is killed so hate will last.

	So suddenly the guillotine chokes off a breathing head
	His lost presence...like our empty mother's miscarriage,
	Of justice floating in the greasy grit of a toilet crack
	Stickily lapping on the white marble of our deserted home.

	There was no sport and there will never be breakfast
	Because man has been crushed in the midst of his slumber,
	The young Bald Eagle is doomed to extinction, finality,
	The hunter never recognizes young heads, tips not snowy.

Birth sign: Sagittarius
Date created: 2001-02-03 18:54:58
Last updated: 2021-03-03 14:43:29
Poem ID: 60023

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