Rhino Horn

In the poppy dens
of Eastern skies, mystics,
from their maladies, don
possession of their minds,
and ritual to the deaths
of rhinos.

on the savanna,
rhinos sleep: grass tuft
blankets beneath their feet,
and unanswered calls
to the dawn.

let them cease in this causeless way.
Why insist on their silent cries?
If death be sweet as moonlight
savanna in a godless sky,
why kiss awake those
shameless eyes?

On the horizon,
a helicopter beats its wings;
to the mercenary minds,
the horn sounds like cash-flow
on mystic markets
where the dust goes
to the melodies of
snake-oil and lies.

If only they could see
what they’ve left behind;
the taint of evil
weighs heavy on
any soul—on any mind;
the corpses, dehorned
to the skulls, ravaged
and raped, seem
like distant reminders
of the living souls
dreaming forever now
in the Savannah dust.

a mystic guided slave
grinds the horn of
a calf and a mother, sipping
the marrow-cure of maladies,
and dies
the next day anyways,
while the world
is left soulless
to its consequence.

Dark, the Savannah lies—
night falls and it remains.
Horns reel silently in
the cold harbored dark,
and there, where rhinos sleep,
hyenas prowl the skies.

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