[zygote]

My Dad said; “Anything living is worthy of aid.”
That was my mantra, words I would say to stay unafraid.
But I couldn’t say it out loud. My Dad was always away,
Sounds wouldn’t go out. A cold midnight into a warm Spring day,
Thrown into disarray. Child psychologists said; “Kiddo, why don’t you just talk?”
A prison of words, my mind was waiting to walk.
But it couldn’t. Who could do such a thing? Who could fathom it?
Man killing animals for sport, that was not a good pacifist.
For a young child it was an astonishing sight,
I thought, who’s to say what’s wrong or what’s right?
Morals or might? God or a plight?
I was losing a war without stopping to fight.
Watching a fight - a man killing a proud animal.
Was it right? No, it wasn’t. It was not rational.
I was hurt by it. A bull running back and forth within a cordon,
A matador attacking its lungs, stomach and all inward organs.
I thought back to Dads words, try to think about that,
A shrill from a crowd masks sounds of an act,
I couldn’t look away, stuck watching in horror,
Watching a kill, without stopping my mantra.
Still watching, but not saying a word, not making a sound,
Nothing in this bad world was worth anything now.