Systematic plagues raging the flock
with unfeathered wings of devour.
They pulsate with slings and stones
as the mechanics embrace
a hassled whispering
of a knife
to a spine.
"I am not here," calls the maiden Life,
"I did not die," replies the idea.
Cradled by butterfly wings
they rue the stratagem. "Oh",
the mob will recite. With
clues and forks,
blinks and blades.
Scripts will expose genitalia
with meaningless prints of an attempt.
A drowned crow in flight
who bares marks of cluelessness