Soiling their meals in lead.

The prey are hiding away
as the predators are busy waiting.
The predator makes a move.
The animals are at it again
making their noises
the prey crying out
as the predators busily chomp away
rendering their cries silent.

While the rest of the animals
keep quiet in their houses
busily starting up their stoves
boiling the pots
reaching into their freezers
rendering their animal instincts
entirely useless.

They sit down at tables
holding hands
smiling at their ceilings
as flakes of paint chip away
soiling their meals in lead
for mistakes are their only way.

Rolling back centuries
to the time of caves
and all they had
was possibility
and their urges
for trying new things
forcing the smallest to eat the berries
as the rest watch
writing down in their journals
those are the ones
that give the shits
the paintings on the walls
merely warnings.

Bringing us back
to the time of now
when our journals
have been ruined by liquid
a red coloring
making the pages stiff
and we’re forced to flip through
skipping several at a time.

Groups smiling
handing each other fictional tales
promising salvation
stating these books have not been ruined
and I’ve always wondered who wrote them?
Was it many speaking the same words
different hands passed over time
twisting the words to their heart desires
bringing us to our daily dinners
coated in lead?

Thanks for reading.
-Temperamentally Tina