Of Farm & Fodder
Black clouds whisper doubts
through ebony shrouds,
sipping on sadness -
like dark, decadent wine -
feasting on fear like foie gras.
Scoffing and plotting
with fat mouths,
chewing ambrosia
then spitting it out.
Actors adjust wigs
under artificial light
the void disappears,
amnesia steals the show,
and so, we accept a new role.
Our lives loop.
They laugh, amused,
through corpulent cheeks
at obedient meat monkeys
that jump through hoops,
then the court jesters, such as I,
who stumble, shout and “moo”.
Yet we roll over
and acquiesce-
fodder feeding,
mindlessly breeding,
replicating evil,
flinching, feeble,
wrinkling in our power,
dimming our sparks,
on a spit-roast, filling bellies
to keep their lights on
instead of ours.