Apocalyptic future of Sunday lunch

Be warned. These are not
the harmless swans of your
time, these ducks will not
quack around your feet
for bread when they can
instead devour your flesh.
No. Such days of balance
have passed, we live now
behind salvaged glass.
Oh the lulling nature of
serenity and the clockwork
beating of their hearts
as teeth gnash and wings
tear limbs. Still my mouth
salivates for what they once
were, their blood now
diseased, the chem trail
apocolypse the hunted
became the hunter. Bow
now before the Kings
of our time, death came
death took and left
only the zombie of mind.
The geese, the ducks
the royal swans. . .
the seagulls pecking still
at rotting carcuses across
our desolute shores,
and so we live now,
shut behind glass doors.

Karen Hayward ©2017

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