Oh Famine, I see you prowling the dark alleys your porcelain skin drawn light against the dark night whispering sweet nothings and inconsequential murmurs towards a blank wall.
Famine with your wide hungry lips set to devour any morsel that might come your way, teeth coated white in injustice and malice like a gravy poured over potatoes.
Do you weep when you kill? Should we weep when a cow comes to the slaughter turned into a half-eaten burger washed down with stale beer and flat soda.
Do you pick your meal off a dizzying menu of choices both esoteric and divine,
or do you simply fill up at the buffet with its nauseatingly unlimited supply of lambs who never wanted to be slaughtered?
That lamb before it became feces told me it wanted to be a painter, and paint all the world in clean cut grass,
and the duck so full on bread barely able to get a quack in edgewise could not poke any holes in the lamb's ambition.
Yet Famine you looked at the veal raised in the ghettos,
and the bulls in the pen and thought you would have a fine meal of pain and suffering slathered in poverty like a pig's ribs in barbecue sauce.
Did you even care that the veal had never known that it could be anything but veal, so starved and emaciated it could not even contemplate its own existence?
Yet there will be a lion that will devour even you famine, it will lick its lips and open its maw so wide that you will think the sun itself had been swallowed whole.