the world
eats the dead
the young
the old
it doesn’t care
just feasts
famished
belly pains
insatiable
while
slowly spinning
in predefined paths
through a void
that defines
with out
as well
as with in

is it any wonder
the jackal
stalks
though the tall grass
the snake slithers
across the sands
the dead eyes
of the apex predator
the scent of fear
of prey
sends subtle notes
along
the very fabric
of the web
that interconnects
every living soul
to the molten core
of the uncaring
matron

we are
what we were
raised to be
famine or feast
flesh machines
in a constant cycle
of violent desire
destined to rot
in this
macabre dance
unwitting participants
with a
silent countdown
over our heads
running
from near fatal event
to an inevitably
fatal end

famished