The Fall
With intransigent views, in disorderly queues
you march towards the final fall.
I don’t discriminate, but swallow all:
both creator and devourer.
Behind invented faiths you cower.
“In the next life we’ll know unconditional love.
None to judge, save He above.”
Why wait? Was it so fucking hard,
to not kill each other over what sets you apart?
If ‘He’ ever existed, he left years ago,
abandoning you to ‘She’ below.
She, who raised you up from primordial jelly,
now finds herself with a rumbling belly.
A fitting epitaph to the Human Race:
“Just like chicken”
(with a bitter aftertaste).
Written in response to Friday Fictioneers, a weekly 100-word writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Come and play along!
Thomas Charles Henry 
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