The Hands of Humanity

The feathers tear, they rend,

drops of dew slip along

the cunning edges of deceit,

without the tinge of darkness

the world has become the tapestry

of clutching hands,

gripping, grabbing,searching,

feeding off the vagary of man.

The decanter slips from the lips of reason--where clarity has settled--

the consuming chaos stretches out

with wanting hands of grief

plucking the plumage from trembling forms,

drops like rubies congeal,

staining ivory scapula in rust,

souls trapped in gilded cages

extending threadbare wings

thrusting toward the empyrean nether.