Poem: Gnawing Nails – 22/06/20

Fingernails ache
from gnawing,
desperately famished
things are they,
 
ever-searching,
ever-hunting,
for fresh flesh
to drag into –
carefully they will
take aim.
 
These nails are not
discerning,
they take,
rip apart,
any creature that they can,
 
fury, famine,
circumstances,
alleviating hunger,
annihilating the need for Man.
 
Man used to feed
these monsters
perishable items
from the woods,
 
cuts of venison,
moose,
rabbit;
the fingernails took
what they could.
 
But now Man is
out of the picture,
attending to protests,
restrictions,
leading disrupted lives,
 
Man has no time
to humour a pair
of dirty, scroungy hands,
no, not now,
not upon this hour,
not any longer.
 
Fending for themselves,
the gory extremities
cast their digits
on the war path,
 
feeling duly pleased
with the freedom
they’re allowed,
 
there is no concern,
they are rulers of
their world.
 
In the corner of
a trench in the woods
they spot a flash
of browny-red,
 
a squirrel,
bless him,
he’s making his final bed,
 
they reach out for him,
darting forth,
blurs to be seen,
 
but when the light settles,
there is no sign of him.
 
Squirrel, Squirrel,
has escaped his fate,
how much longer will he last?
 
Disappointed fingertips,
tap, rap, tap,
underlying hunger,
growing famine,
 
only now do they long for,
yearn for the return 
of their precious, absent
Man.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

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