0225

fog exhales from his deep warm breath,
looking over the grave of his father after death,
a cross marks the place to point to the sky,
with a frown on his face to wonder why,
taken from his life by a force he cannot beat,
they enslaved his family giving little to eat,
weeks pass as this night grows dim with rage built inside,
as his fat master consumes a meal with mouth open wide,
guests all sit at the table and speak of shit,
noticing the master of the house eating every bit,
not a poison or an object but a simple idea,
knowing he is allergic to them with a constant fear,
carefully placed on the tip of his pork,
a bee stinger set and pressed with a fork,
the master feels its sting deep in his throat,
closing the air way as the guests think its a joke,
noticing him turning red and trying to speak,
then turning purple except around the cheek,
the guests all don't move as he struggles to live,
as the slave runs in knowing his father will not forgive,
taking his flute he plays during the days on the land,
jamming it down his masters throat with his dirty hand,
the master breathes with a flute standing tall,
playing a sound loudly that vibrates the wall,
all the guests leave with the master still playing a tune,
as they all look at him with grins to control his life soon.