We are midwifes to death
Acting like little gods
Changing what is right and beautiful into abominations
How can the hand that strokes the mane and scratch the chin
Deliver the blow
Little snots press into holes begrudgingly poked in sheet metal prisons
Trying to escape the scent of terror
They feel the warmth of the sun they’ll never lie in
Legs that ache to bound across verdant fields
Will be force to wobble one short distance
Pleading eyes tell us the butcher’s knife is not the cruelest cut
Plates are full
Is there enough drink to wash it all down?

The severed strands of Septembers past
Milled about with thoughts of youth
Partaking prematurely from the fount of regret
Distinguishing between the add ons and what nots they had gathered on the road
They glance skeptically in my direction

This is no fun, no fun at all
Even if all my notions of the word were reborn and rearranged
I can’t conceive of any merriment or mirth
Hidden below or dangling above this misbegotten meet

And who arranges such gatherings
Most likely midwifes with tattered stockings
And little left to do
But peruse the petulant prose which portrayed me in such a pale light

Feigning reinforcement resolves to root out this weekend repast
And charge headlong screaming freedom and forget me nots
At any shallow head which might turn this way
I’ve forgotten what to say
Twirl another strand of hair stuck awkwardly on the forehead of the universe

And we were all waiting like blind acorns in twisted tunics
As the caravan of caricatured contestants collided
With the haughty holdings of the hallowed harbinger
And whispered all my secrets in the air
Just as the rendered remnants of my hidden heart
Gave way to the scattering winds of this solemn September
Fortune flitted in and flared her skirt for me
And smiled… just smiled