who have taken God from her forest
taken her and clothed
her in items of your choosing
Jewels and houses she would eschew.
Put a gun in her hand put her sons
in foreign lands – all
In the name of her father.
You, who have twisted her words
to create the leviathan called
You, who walk the street undercover of pinstripes and attaché and
a business card for proof, and privilege.
You, who cannot judge the passing smell oozing
(a fragrance?) from the carcass of your dying civilization
Yet you judge.
For someone has sallied the rope
Spanning the crevasse between man and the super man.
Someone knows that side of the swampy abyss and
You, making it yours with every sweep of arm and voice.
You, who strive to be occupied with life’s banquet
As you jockey for position and invent
determining closeness to your God.
Surprise! When the female of the species,
with her patterned wings, rises from the swamp and
with nothing more than her sense organs
drives you back to the craggy edges of your success.
It is she (not you) who will enact the inevitable:
extinction through natural selection.
She worries not.
Moving from host to host she will
ensure that you and your super-kindred,
in attending this banquet,
sit and starve.