The Plight of the Social Dodo

by kholinar

Aboil in a kettle on the Isle of Maurice
hollow bones crackle and flesh loses purchase
prepared for the maw of knowledge unloved
a dread hunt to cleave, fowl shot for to broil

so restless and staring, their dull eyes unset
their grasping hands muddied and bent to the task
To be kings in the last times, to orate for hell
and rule in the subways, with minds like turnstiles

till posts on the rails shake, and grates eclipse red
all horrors streets compass, dark bonfires of limbs
and hinges turn chaste touch to fast-plunging fingers
with murder in the first and torture close behind