The Return of the Animal Farm Chapter 2 Part 8

 The Return of the Animal Farm

Inspired by a family who lives in Muskogee, Oklahoma,

Chapter 2 Part 8

We see food as food. We never wanted to be opposed by what is on our plates. These morsels weren't meant to be mortal. What is the essence of the entity which was meant to be devoured? The swine are as full of saline as much as they pucker our smiles. Our impressions turn to scowls when everyone's favorite food starts to wage war against their hands that feed. We could have provided a perfect world for such tender delicate morsels. When we thought of them as mortal friendly farmers they disguised themselves in the middle of our homes. For it could be fatal if you are the sole farmer in the company of swine, be them boar or sow in kind. Will we rat out the snakes in the likeness of swine if we mistake them as our own kin, for our future will end with one last fin.

We've hobbled our evolution to the point of devolution. The apes walk with us as a group or a pod, calling themselves the squad. We ran like devils that walked on fours or less, parading around in various forms of undress. We are as naked as larks, mockingbirds, even robinettes. Fools believe they'll be safe in a whirlwind of beggars and thieves. One who chooses to be charitable long ago was plundered afterwards. We've felt inferior to those who we declared degenerates. It is sad those heathen scum were believed be your own bum. They were the head of the true establishment, blood like wine was their power within that did not ferment nor neither relent.

Napoleon led the now seven swine to the wreckage. They all stripped the farmers naked and swallowed flesh, bones, organs, all. Swine do not bake, will eat whatever their eyes partake as gold. To the common swine, all flesh is sparkling diamonds. Dogs have more refined taste than hogs. Napoleon smiled as did Chris, all new sisters and brothers. Illia exquisitely liked the farmers crunch, a delicates taste, with decay of grit on their jaw. They kissed food as if it was a loyal partner, as if it could be either gender. Chris, like a mariner relinquished to a kitchen of saucers, couldn't be anymore foreign. He cleaned the messes of the swine's earthen plates, his titanic load shaken Gaia as if it were his abode to creak. Napoleon's massive neck seeped from sores of uncleanliness, a common state for large elder swine. These swine, alas, were misled scorching dragons. They were nothing yet a plague or a scorch, as if they could be invasive locusts. Not even the beetles could be more privileged, as even they will want more than the comfort of the abode. Our hearth should be our heart, 'tis not the home where it lies? For both new swine or farmer, it is a battlefield. In this age, farmer and swine alike squabble, not with harmonization. A choir out of sync is chaos, with justice running too rampant. There is no society within a score that does not match, as difference compliments, nor shall it not complain. Our compliance is the death of us all, if swine and farmer cannot mambo together at an Autumn festival. Harvest is shared, not reaped to one side, for now our world is destined to perish, covered in flames we ourselves were responsible to our own accounting. Death to the solo man, who sings alone as a tenor, degrading those who are not him.

Why did we legitimatize our legacies through others? We were poor, filled with wrath over fear, believing us kings and gods. Vanquished is the one who runs over other his people, something native chiefs and medicine men admitted freely. The blood of swine or farmer boil while scathing the skin when we bask in the glory of the sun. Fathers condemned their children. Did mothers take the same turn? What they did learn was to kill what they viewed as piglets. We became swine when we were meant to be farmers. Should we despise them? Even medicine men won't hate their birthing apparatus. They will never trust, however, those who won't converse with them never. Tears tie shut after the while, for medicine men won't be in denial. Like a heartless crocodile, unwilling, yet full of knowledge, they slam the portal closed. The soul and mind of the sage is full, their spirits and hearts in a desert of thirst. Abandon them, they're not coming back. For those who would seek, be it a ghost villa, tyrannical lizards like a rex be a more frequent guest than those devils that attempt to test. Don't accuse them, you won't be able to, because if you try, they'll desire more to run, to hide, more even give up the thing they held onto. They'd be in their own heaven, a wanted elysium, their form of endless, deathless, transcendent existence.