Without A Fitting Title

They beheld, perplexed, the lines on his face; lines now typical to those of his race.
Little girls clasped their tiny hands in glee,
Their mothers too, did so in right key.
The markings, they took, for age-old wisdom:
“I bet he got that while he stayed in Lisbon.”
If better they’d known, then it would to them have been shown
That those lines were, in fact and actuality,
Evidence of malice
That o’er the years he’d earned
While he drank, leisurely sipped, from his blood-laced chalice.

The children would queue
At his side they would do:
“Pick me up oh Uncle; oh do, oh do!”
Never them once would he away from him shoo,
And ever, each time, he had a tactic brand new.
Yet subtle and cunning
Like the skilled and crafty thief,Our victims’ only proof, while he stood aloof,

Were feeble mumblings, words; “Momma, he did it like this!”
Some still stare with glazen eyes
In disbelief of what transpired
concerning their thighs,
Finding little comfort in their unanswered “why?s”.

While the women engaged in virtual tea parties
And the men sat down to drink some gall,
The piper belted his tune and the children were mindlessly led
To a seemingly crystal, glistening ball.
Poor little sheep, to the slaughter they flocked;
Some of them their future to be forever locked.
While we clamour for glamour and wish our lives had more drama,
The babies are had (some ’til they’re dead)
by the one called Uncle; with the life-stained chalice.

Let us pray.

©Anna T. D. Gowera