Annihilators
A poem on primal drives
The hunt for flesh has ended. Drones descend for the fĂȘte Dropping payloads of organs Still warm, ashes as confetti. Man, dead meat or machine Parades the slain, their prize Of Eros bound and beaten For their feast of Thanatos, Baring teeth, rearing heads Recalcitrant as rabid beasts In concrete cages. Complicit Until threatened. Lash out Now, bite the hand that feeds Or cower like placated prey.


This is powerful
lots of imagery