r.i.d.

a question for the weak

or so it seemed with smiles painted

on cold grey facades worn

flaps of steel swing careless

on something more than metal carcasses

dawn's sun raced to their shoulders

ready the heralds!

for their feet

their feet carry import

carry fickle beings, ones who change

with a necessity that precedes sense

to please those glistening chops

deep within warm dilated pupils

filled with wonder