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Sunday's dinner bell
October 21, 2019
When dead dogs come a knocking,
When hounds eyes bleed crimson dread,
Neglectful prophets lay half eaten, their loyal pooches fed.
Man's best friend takes his communion,
The taste, it's so refined;
Whilst forgetful master, lay stwen out:
All horrors but death will find.
After all,
The job of masters, to keep their pack well fed,
Remains their one credential, sans,
Conclusion:
Masters dead.
© Justin R., Angola, IN
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I had the idea of a poem like this for a while and was sort of stuck with it. Then it just kind of came to me. There is no better moment or feeling than reeling in an idea you have been trying to catch for awhile.