Expectant

The gossip of the young expectant often filled up the dark, Those old and dumb bygone veterans had long since lost their bark; the voices they’d never owned were taken with their bite, they bowed their heads to bondage; forsook the will to fight.

Still, those first-time mothers soon to be would wail and persist, ‘As long as we’ve got legs, should we not rail and resist? The blood of our split and spilt sisters left behind a mist that never truly faded; concrete proof we do exist. Perhaps if we scream loud enough our voices will not be missed, They too will stain these walls, and not be so easily dismissed.’

(The young were cursed with hope, you see Yet in days to come that too would be pulled, squeezed and wrung free by balled-up fists of primate thieves with endless pockets and the need to feed and please and feed and ease their moaning bottomless bellies.)

And, as all revolts true ever ignite in the absence of light, the young chalked dreamt-up names against the black of night, like the stars they too would fade, but first they would burn bright and haunt those thieves with ghosts glowing a sick milk-white.

Alas, the young did not know that the thieves were blind to spirit, for they’d burglarised their own the day they’d learnt to fear it, and of their bodies left, they’d cover them out of shame but strip everything else for taking was their game.

‘That’s why they steal our children’s milk to feed their shrieking babes they’ll pinch and loot whatever they can to shut up all their pains, their agony is so loud they do not hear this planet’s knell!’ These the mothers old barely held heart left to tell, ‘That we are simply products in a factory-line to Hell.’

‘The primates have created so many other dimensions; Hell just happens to be one of their oldest inventions. They do much more than eat with those gnashing teeth, They’ve made up entire stories to turn us into beef; they say it’s natural law to make slaves of other species, and we were never more than ingredients to recipes. Our lives are a wicked process from solid to liquid to gas, and there will be no trace of who we were no memory, nor ash.’

© Josh Lonsdale, 2020

Some more of my poems,