Through a torn visage, I see the flame
One torch, by day, reflects ages hence
That spark, they say, can't be to blame
But many, still, keeps shoulders tense.

Man, sincerely, calls for homeland
But flame to mirror rends reflection bent
When man, in jest, sets sparks to woodland
The forest, torn, its visage now rent.

My nose has rolled away
With the meatball to romp and play
Down the artichokey
On top of mountains old and smokey

My ears, they flew right off
without another care or thought
They rose in to the sky
A small and fleshy butterfly

My tongue just up and left
Leaving behind a mouth bereft
It ran off with my toes
10 legs it had to quickly go

What's next I do not know
Perhaps my hands are next to go
I'm falling all apart
Body part   -   a la carte

It baffles me how
Many who preach
Pro-life choose
To eat a ham sandwich
For lunch,
Or buy a "pet"
From a *******,
Thus taking a
Life from the shelter.

Then there are those sad clowns
Who think it's funny to say
"Yum, bacon!" when you expose the
Torture and bloodshed
Of some poor animal
Produced for food.

And, we mustn't forget
The good ol’ “humane" farmers
Who raise trusting animals
From birth only to
Hang them up, slit their throats, and
Slowly bleed them out to
Turn
A
Profit.

How can we be so disconnected?
How do we not see the
Magic in every fetus?
The wondrous exchange of
Seed to soil - just as humans -
Creating a precious being
Who also deserves a life
Of liberty and justice?

Whether two legs or four,
Wings or extremities,
Fur or skin, fins or scales,
How can we not see their
Inherent worth?

Such dire disconnect!

We were created the same
Dear human and non-human
Animal friends, out of
Magic and dreams.
We both hunger and thirst,
Bleed and seek shelter, cry out
In pain, shiver in the cold,
Fear, and fight for survival.

We all begin by breathing in Life,
And we shall all leave this earth with
One
Final
Breath.
How is that not proof of our connectedness?

She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian