Futility

Gnawing maggots crunch and bite through
sinew and socket; their advance gained by
terminal termites whose mandibles made
short work of a mahogany coffin.
Tearing amid stagnant flesh and rot, their survival is
assured through our consumption;
we die so that they may live.

Is this the sacrifice preached from
countless pulpits? Is it a
maggot messiah who will rise on
the third day?
This is my flesh, my blood;
eat, drink and be filled.

Or are we losing our resolve at the
futility of trying to make sense of it all before
we, too, turn into
fuel for the feeding end?

by Erik Shinker