The table
it’s cold,
it’s hard,
it’s my final resting place.

My long neck lies stiff,
like a fallen tree on the driest day
in the African savannah.

Your knife pierces my skin
and glides down my neck,
that once grazed the highest leaves
and towered over lions.

Go ahead
cut me open
I give you my,
permission.

Cut me open,
I’ll share my history,
show you my ancestry,
tell you how I lived,
how I feed my young,
how I mated,
how I fought for them,
how I died.

The battlefield is a canvas
splats of red,
dead bodies,
weeping young warriors,
painted by the devil’s paint brush.

The battlefield is a garden
red roses,
blue British,
maroon mustard,
purple parapet,
the thorns of war.

The battlefield is a crib
the cloud of lead
like a blanket
that covers the soldier at night,
smothering him to death.

Guns, weapons,
innocent beauties
manipulated
and overworked
to do the devil’s deed
until they over heat
from despair and plead.