Sacks of Blood

Whenever the human world convulses
And the death rate from weaponry soars,
It seems implausible such destruction

Could be orchestrated by small bodies
Intent on rearranging each other,
Such fire and chaos from small sacks of blood.

It’s as if ants started hurling redwoods,
Honeybees started dynamiting hives,
Termite siege engines battered termite towers.

It’s our fault. It’s our magic in your mouths.
If words had never given you power,
And stories never turbocharged your rage,

You would still be huddled on the margins
Where the forests meet the grasslands, watching
For small opportunities to scavenge.