The vixen and the tribes

A Poem by outlandish

The desolation of the grred

The vixen was poisoned by carefully laid baits in a field made devoid of life.

Cold metal had fractured the core, fracture the spine of the land.

It was a waste land of industry that rotted into the soil; it clung to the edge of an abandoned town, another rotting corpse with the stench of decay and a field set aside for the disposal of those that fell.

Life lived in vicarious now, decimated then moved down the road, all the dregs of steel limbed men long gone to a new site of pillage with the trailing parade of w****s the pious, the drunkards and the gambling men replete with the paid gunmen in there worn out leather boots that jangled with each stride.

An ancient continent was dissolving, the shafts dug deep then long, the ancient ones left broken they mourn the soul of their being.

The miners were pack mules for the men in tailored suits the gunmen were the bodyguards of cold and precious dirt.

A carnival of opportunists settled in the ruins to dig and gouge for untapped seams of this land destroying dirt, they never moved on and all around them sprung up like mushrooms after a heavy rain the merchants made a town, decadence on one side of the street and those drenched in the blood of the lamb the other, steered around the heathens sprawled in mud caked roads as the w****s hung like lanterns from the balconied temples of lust.

The vixen gasped a final breath and left her life behind as her pups yelped but there was nothing to hear that piteous sound.

Ravens circled up above and settled in shattered trees amidst the ruin and desolation, attuned now to those plaintive sounds.