Brute

This brute of a world this

relentless beast on the prowl

or so it seems to us

who bow down, one knee

on the ground and the hair

raised like briar on

the nape of their neck.

We don't believe in fate we

thought we would be safe

but we weren't we

couldn't for we 'drew breath'.

To us patient observers the

brute never ceases to pounce

every piece of beauty

to maul to shreds all

of what brought us joy

knowing doom was spelt within.

Wrought-iron wrench in the works

that's what the brute does

and is, and if for a moment

we fancied fighting back

we had sooner wished we had died

when last we slashed our veins

because this brute of a world this