The wolf drinks of fear and ash,
Sucking joy through the spindly flames
Of collapsed sticks and bones.
The less discerning sheep
Feeds on the selfless,
On living vacancies and unkempt lots.
What manner of animal am I?
Between my cloven hoof,
A posey abandons her wiles,
Fangs hooked into a plump ovary,
I question the validity of my love
The identity under which it was first framed,
The polarizing instincts that play on refrain.
What manner of animal I am?
If we are what we eat than I am,
Without a doubt, myself.
(Only man could harbor such sacrilege)
So I ask again what manner of animal am I?
The cruelest of all beasts,
Man cannot hear the tempo of his heart
Over the tantrum of his archaic brain.