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(pic source : Fantastic Mr. Fox By Roald Dahl)
Battered flesh tattooed onto the human world
melting into the gravel that was once
tall, golden-green grass where mama taught you
to hunt buffalos, to nip their flesh where it hurt
where you felt like the king of the predators
Your teeth are still barred
and you are submerged in blood and gasoline
a fly lands on your nose, teasing you as you draw closer
to death, mocking your lowly demise
and you close your eyes, surrendering to the desert sun
It must be the drunken heat or the hypnotic droning of the breeze
but you see your mother again, her red coat twinkling in the moonlight
as she tears the hide from a squirrel with her teeth stained with generations
of dried blood and rotten flesh
you stood in the clearing of a forest with her and your siblings
that overlooked the stream, the trees and the blackberry bushes where you
loved to tease the rabbits
we are the summit Ma would hiss, her gentle growl threading the evening breeze
And to this day, she is the most rabid, ferocious and strongest beast you know
and she promised that you would grow into the most magnificent fox
with fur like hers and the spark of a killer in your eyes
your body shifts ever so slightly on the asphalt and you whimper
like you are a baby cub again, nestled in the viridescent meadow
as Ma fed you rabbit entrails.
you thought that if you ever had to die, it would be on the tallest hill
with a plump racoon under your paw. on top. the very top.
but you face it: you cannot breathe, you are seventeen thousand feet
underwater, rolled over, flattened against a man-corrupted ground:
the lowest a creature can go.
i’m sorry, Ma.
As always, you are stubborn to cling onto life. Your lasts few breaths feel like
that truck mauling you over again and again and again
mud-caked tires crushing your ribs, exhaust rupturing your lungs
your entire body turns the same red as your fur
You try to take in a final glimpse of the blue sky, although it has been
slightly tarnished by human dust
the flat plains of desert sand and lonesome trees
a bird leaps carelessly into your vicinity, plump just like you love them
a perfect final meal—
you do not have enough life to stretch out your wrecked claws
the bird cocks its head and floats away, your last glimmer of hope
fading mindlessly into nothing
Mother earth blows a stray leaf and a stalk of grass
next to your tattered flesh, nature’s offering to the poor grave that you
formed with your own body that has been immortalised and imprinted on this road.
Then the world goes still.
— Aschea
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