The Beast Is Not an Animal

The beast is not an animal.

It has no claws,
no fangs,
no forest to hide in;
it comes in open arms.

It sits in rooms
where the fate of our only home
is decided,
wearing a mask for a reason,
signing papers
that turns forests into trees and woods;
and oceans into borders.

Look at what it has brought us—

wars,
fires,
floods,
silent rivers,
empty nests;
and skies that remember
the colour of smoke.

Too many disasters
to count.

And yet
the beast is invited
to place its cards on the table;
where tomorrow is decided.

Perhaps that is what makes it a beast—
not that it destroys,
but that it knows
what it is destroying;
and continues.

Somewhere,
far beyond its reach;
a poet sits.

No weapon.
No throne.
No power to command;
All as its own.

Only words.

He writes of the beast
with metaphors,
with broken images,
with lines that refuse to sleep.

Perhaps the beast
will never read the poem.

Perhaps it will laugh.

But the poet keeps writing—

because sometimes
the first act of resistance
is to give a monster
its true name.