Quaint cafes with
candlelit tables,
galleries lined with
churned watercolors,
and flower shops
brimming with
soft-scented
petals—
all built to assert
that we are not
of the others—
distinct from the
barbaric
Kingdom of
Animal.
We need to believe
that modern man
is above their
violent scavenging
since, after all,
we’ve evolved beyond
brute hunting
and desperate
gathering.
Sure, we erect
our ornate
monuments,
compose music,
tie the knot,
dine side by side
with forks and knives,
and often share
our lot.
But we come from
the barbaric kingdom
and can never
truly depart,
no matter how fine
we bottle
our wine
or craft
our eddied
art.
This immutable truth
seeps uncouth
from battlefields
spattered with ire,
estate sales,
concrete cells,
and stifling
novel-stoked
pyres.
pm poetry 