pomegranate sandwich in the hands of war

the butchers
were long gone
they and their victims
ghosts now
wind and rain
still stained
with the blood
of what's lost
when Life
is not held
as sacred
hunger

we eat their flesh
and their bones
children, we
tear them from
what nature provides
we ride out as wise
our thirsty oscillations
of want and what we say
we must do and
disguise this as
revelations from God
or our most common causes 

that point of no return
we burn with
a communal fear
is always nearing
and Pinocchio is
its door knocker now 

in perpetual almost Winter Hades
he is wishing on Persephone
again and again
and again and again
he is a worn ware
wearing aware
visitors hang
little bundles
on his nose
supposing
they're tribute
for mild weather

EJR ©