By Tonny Wandella
Mornings are full of hunters,
But we prey;
We prey, lodged under a cloud of anticipation,
but mornings are vicious and full of confusion,
Cast upon us are seeds of our sins.
But we prey;
Before we become brace in a hunter’s bloody grip.
We browse and gnaw,
Until nothing palatable is left;
So we prey;
never to turn each other into broth and its aroma,
never to be baptized with a chase; a hunter’s flurry.
So we prey,
Before he skin and wear us.
A times we call traps home,
Stuck in the routine of survival;
today our names are cleared but…
we prey;
for the shepherd to come back to us in haste.
Coats turned to armor,
so, we pray.