SAVAGE ME

It attempted to skitter away from my mother’s grasp
with its claws agape it, naturally, yearned freedom.
To another such as it did it with precision clasp,
intent on, by chance, escaping to its fantasy Eden.

But it simply did not have the required speed,
just a destination, certainly, in mind to be traveled;
and, although it didn’t necessarily cry or bleed,
I’m sure it knew that its insides were to be unraveled.

It could not, nor would I, withstand being tortured,
having been boiled to a crimson doom blush of red.
If only I craved the garden offerings in the orchard;
Surely, harvesting never caused greens to have bled?

Pleading for its survival was its only endeavor.
In fairness, it was the most delicious lobster. Ever.

@kwirb #30Days30Sonnets
September 20th 2015.

Another late submission (2am!) Just got back from Maine… And I thought of this while my mother boiled the lobster. There’s something pathetically whimsical and probably morbid in writing a sonnet about animal torture. But, how else does one cook lobster?