At The Kill Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

The hyena lies
with its bloody grin
infested with flies
like a torn-off limb

lies in the grass
watching lions feed
on bladders of gas
and stumps that bleed.

No hellish laughter
now: only patient eyes
on the surplus of slaughter,
ears twitching for flies:

here they glower
those who could not kill
till the appointed hour
to gorge their fill.

The powerless must wait,
in fever-hot heat,
coiled in hunger and hate:
they watch the tearing of meat

through eye-slits of anger
until they can crawl slowly in after
the feast and glut themselves:
danger
having passed, they disgorge their laughter.