The Hen Poem by Natasha Kirke

The Hen

Rating: 4.0

In her pen she lies in wait
A fluster of feathers and feet surround her
Every small beady eye glistens with hope and fear
As they swivel in their sockets
Clawed feet scratch the dry hay in anxiety
The wooden floor bears the marks
Fear and paranoia hang in the air
Like a terrible stench.
Hark, he comes,
The figure in shiny, eerie material.
He takes his prise
Small speckled objects
And carries them away to his den
Unborn offspring concealed in a shell
Never seen the light
Never felt warm sun upon their feathers
Never felt straw or soft soil under small clawed feet
Never lived or breathed
And taken way
Never to exist as a being
Or to feel the glow life beating inside
A chance taken away like a flash of lightning
As it hits the ground.
The tears of despair,
The silent cries of anguish
Ring in the air
Forever a ringing shadow shrouds the pen in a terrible darkness.
He often comes with his shiny object
A rod of wood and steel
The Devil’s craft
Inside metal demons wait to be unleashed
One squeeze of the trigger releases one of them
And with merciless speed
Pierces the feathered breast
And shatters their weeping hearts
No craft could be more cruel
Only the ones who’s hearts of ice
Feel no sympathy or love,
Could create such an object.
However it is not only the hens
He hunts other animals for his sickly demon-like pleasure
He hunts and hunts
And when he returns,
He severs their heads and keeps them as trophies
I can almost hear the millions of souls crying and scurrying,
Trapped inside their heads
Once their world for privacy and thought
Now their prison
Caught up in some demon ritual
Or some demonic hobby.
They watch him through their false eyes
And haunt his spirit
And curse his heart with icy cold hate.
He often sends his hounds to catch some unsuspecting creature
And bring the poor innocent creatures to their master.
Some think they are also the beings of hell
But they are merely the slaves
Forced into a life of killing and slavery
A life of blood.
I sometimes hear their dreadful howls of pain
As they are punished by the cruel but mighty hand of their demonic master
And with undying hate curse with growls and barks
And as if by some enchantment
The hatred for this being hangs in the air like an icy cold shadow
We all share it.
This being’s hunger for blood never ceases
He takes us one by one
And places one quivering body on a dead tree stump
Cold fear
Pounding heart
It comes!
The cruel mighty hands raised high
Down comes the Devil’s heart in a metal form
Upon the delicate neck
Cold and unfeeling
However, some may call it a touch of an angel
It’s merciful speed strikes no pain
Guiding the soul into a peaceful passage.
Kiss the God ridden world goodbye
Face the hollow eyed skull Death or God
Feel a thin heatless hand or a warm welcoming hand
And prepare to meet darkness or the skies
What lies after death when sinless blood is shed?

We are the hens and the farmers
Some live in fear
Under the power of hellish masters
Some lust for power
Some have it
They believe they rule the world
And misuse their power
And rule Kingdoms of Blood.

Yash Shinde 29 October 2012

great imagery..................very very deep and insightful poem great :)

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