272 – The Killing

Poem number 272
.
The Killing
.
The muted crunch of carapace
The skin that splits unheard
The silent ooze of leaking flesh:
A murder has occurred.
.
The booted foot of malice
Is the weaponry du jour
A stamp. A grind. A pivot
‘Til the victim is no more
.
There’ll be no trial or punishment
No twenty years in jail
No justice for the gastropod
I’m glad I’m not a snail.

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