A Return to Glory
The Winter chill is a velvet blanket
draped over my skin
to bring out the raw frigid emotions
that return my ancestral memories
to the days when my forefathers
survived in caves at night after slaughtering
large beasts in the field by day and then feasting
upon the roasted flesh from the fire
that was sparked with the flame of evolutionary ingenuity.
A part of me longs for a return
to those harrowing, threat-filled, simpler times
when adrenaline and testosterone
ruled the roost, and Man
clawed his way to the top of the food chain
one sacrificial ceremony at a time.
I long to gnaw on the fresh bones
of a woolly mammoth brought down
after days on end spent tracking its herd’s location.
I long to thrust the hand carved spear into its side.
I long to shred the fur from its skin.
I long to wear the wool
and dance to the wild rhythmic beats
that only the shamans and madmen
who are connected to deceased spirits
can hear as the strange song pours forth
from a holy synchronized force
that flows with an energy beyond temporal understanding.
I long for the primal rage and bloodlust.
I long to let loose from these lungs
with a warning to all challengers
that the King Ape has ascended,
and that all who are not with me
have become potential enemies or prey.
The Winter chill through my open window
disturbs my furnace heated comfort,
arousing all types of preternatural instincts to surface
inside the safety of this suburban home.
Scott Thomas Outlar flows and fluxes with the Tao River, gazes at stars, laughs at life's existential problems, dances to the rhythms of the celestial song, and writes prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His work appears weekly at Dissident Voice, and recently in venues such as Medusa's Kitchen, Section 8 Magazine, Corner Club Press, W.I.S.H, and The Kitchen Poet. He can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com.
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