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OWL



This owl seems lost in this swirling pool
Of vile dance of dinosaurs
Who mount our stool

This owl frets at this cycle of shame
Of starving caruncles chuckling
As these wolves play their game

Of these youths, these stooges
Whose future fades in callused hands
While relishing laughter and silent grudges

These wolves without souls
Clothed in gowns and wools
With the sweat and blood of our soles

This owl faints
At how they praise
And call them saints

But this owl shall continue to screech
At these beetles who suck
Our substance and make us bleach

To mute it is to crown damnation
Like bribery and corruption
But to heed is to mother salvation

This owl shall hang on this pyramid
Of insipid city of salts
To weep at the rape of all good deed

But this owl, this owl ain't me!

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