Annihilators

A poem on primal drives

The hunt for flesh has ended.
Drones descend for the fête
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.

Photo by john hacking on Unsplash