In the color of awakening our eyes glimpse frontward;
The still picture of life choosing our strange development.
Only as god-headed Anubis rises do we begin to sit up.
Does our blood not run with its unique being until shadow?
Our choices aren’t merely life, but its dancing nourishment
Of wish, yet we seem content in our slack jawed living,
Startled, like sheep governed by jackals.
Now is the occasion of our most hallowed sanctuary;
We are stirring the untamed humility of a new province
And we should, we must, see the angels motioning to us
From their silver-lined occurrence.
We’re tasting an account of empire that is infected
And has begun to sketch our days in thickened blood.
The hope of kindness is being spent in fees of silence,
Slain, like sheep governed by jackals.
War and theft are now boarders in our homes,
Sharing a bed and smacking their greedy lips at our table.
Accounts seem lost to these events in the steady drum,
The throb of liberty and speech blasted thickly in it.
Are we awake? Are we alive? Are we beckoning to it?
We see, we smell, we hear it, must we suffer it, too?
If we’re dead how might we then change course;
Voiceless, like sheep governed by jackals.
The jackal’s eerie howling and scavenging senses
Are most suitable for our dank and willful gloom,
Picking over the carcass of our living, dying and dead.
The leopard, hyena and eagle dare not answer
For they know they too have lost the spirit to fight.
Does our blood not run in our being until shadow?
Are our ideals dead? We’ve no more yearning than this?
You can rest assured that the jackal does.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman