The Kill

We sought the summer warmth

when winter’s unrelenting grip

left our whole world

a prison cell

and now

we seek reprieve

from the oppression

of Summer’s heavy hand.


We’re never happy,

are we?

Never finding pleasure

with the season,

because we ourselves

are out of place;

out of synch,

out of touch

with the world

and our place in it.


Never pleasured by the toil,

only basking,

sweet languishing

in moments

of congratulatory applause

for ineffective gestures.

Callous and cowardly, now

aren’t we?

Didn’t we used to seek danger out?

Didn’t we used to run the prey to the ground

and smash its skull with a rock

and split its skin

to feed the tribe

and never once

did we call ourselves




just business as usual.

Cotton and down

have become a chain

and style a noose

about our freshly shaven chins.

You and I once spoke

of lands to conquer;

didn’t seem that long ago,

but now

we bleat for mercy

from a cold and indifferent master.


Heaven help us,

but we get weaker with each season

and the winter

is coming ’round again soon.

Did we stock enough

to make it though

the harshest in memory?

Have we strength left

to hunt

and make the kill?

Only the change of season

will tell.


HG – 2017

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