Good at Bad

I’m angry.
Hawks skim and scratch
Earth to hunt, to fill their gut
Seeing as far as smooth beak
Unable to see
The pointed dagger curved beneath
That rips to feed.
Unfeeling toward the weaker things
Caught between tear and talon

The hawk exists as predator
Skilled at the catch
His hunger and his instinct
Drive his vessel
Searching the easy prey
Incapable, intolerant
Of sympathy
And humility
Is a foreign language.

Everything must eat.


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