A Parable of Sorts. #Poetry

We danced to rancorous tunes on spiked ground and
our knees sang with each puncture, so that several
agouti colonies, melanic in our russet strengths,
learned as wild rats to scurry or guard ourselves from
skin-spite. Immune from nocturnal drowsiness
we strong-bellied creatures assembled, campaigned;
gyrated to blowed trumpets and cradled songs, but,
us black rats with our rogue swagger that spoke
of foreign ports, pranced our survival shuffle in
night’s murky dance halls. Each step our single
prayer, each jab our benediction. This tart sermon
containered our septic hurts and lean swaggers. On
the strike of dawn, we skittered from shadows, the
redeemed walking day’s straight-road into warpland.
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