Swine

When were they last fed?
They’ve ravaged all of the gnarled husks and
Flipped through the sticky slime for
Every last scrap, now frenetically
They roam the corridors of their
Over-crowded lair in desperation
For they are starving

Where is the hand?
Those pale leathery digits that
Freely dispersed the food?
When had they last seen it
Hovering above the green wood to
Shake them from their slumber?
For they are starving

What is this ache?
This sharp hollowness sawing away
The gut; unfamiliar and frightening
A lack that defies comprehension
Have they not been chosen?
Something is wrong
For they are starving

Who is this bloodless figure,
Anonymous and prostrate on the cold crusty earth?
A broken pencil and a paper half crossed
Now illegible in the murky rain
Illegible and inedible and therefore
They have they have no choice
For they are starving

So they ate him; every jot.
The eyeball
The tongue
The fingernail
The veins
The nervous system
The skin
The bones
And they were full

(A short pause)

And lying there satiated
Scratching their pink bloated bellies
They gazed across the conspiratorial river
That lined the edge of their rancid pit
And saw more.

For they are starving