Savagery stood on a stool tonight.
Whooped and hollered with a noose at its neck.
Earth quaking, just teasing at the future.
Naught to do but tip the fellow over.

Streets as scars, crisscrossing and pithy,
artistically lashed into Her hide here.
Filled with feet stamping on the asphalt
to an anthem born of innateness.

Sweat still falling and dust now rising -
the embrace of a prophetic end game.
To beat out a rhythm that builds momentum
requires some sort of inspired madness.

Our gears turn a ferocious flywheel
to build up and pen up
the wailing and mesmerizing
dashed with recklessness.

Just wrapping paper over a gaping maw,
given away by the flutter of our breath.
Ripples and shadows hint at the truth.
Couldn’t keep calm holding a rapture in our chests.

No well-precisioned equipment on this block
to dampen that tremoring.
Just blood and flesh, and tempers flaring.
Can’t dress up an horrid truth like us, see.

But Savagery is on a stool tonight.
Whooping and hollering with a noose at its neck.
The rage resounding until it’s a standing
wave deep in all our bones.