The boar’s head hangs on the wall,
his expression still fierce, mixed
with confusion, as if wondering
how it came to this,
from a creature of the wild
to decoration, one of many,
a sordid trophy of life snuffed out
for vanity and pride.
You know many such, broken people,
their lives sent to taxidermy,
never themselves again,
their murderers so certain of their superiority
they never notice their trophies
slip off the wall, reunite with spirit and soul
and live again.
So sure are the gun bearers,
so certain their victory is complete,
they never notice the trail of blood
as the trophies slither off the wall
and learn to live again, with or without limbs,
a new fierceness in their souls,
the best sort of victory, to live wildly
again, leaving a space on the wall
as their own trophy.
About this poem
This is one of those poems where, lacking inspiration, I went through my pictures looking for something distinctive to spur enough emotion to write.
I may have overdone it. This image brought out so much emotion from so many sources, life, faith, politics, and more, that were I to write of it here, someone would be calling the men with the straitjackets. So no rants. Instead, with some verbal wrestling, a poem of victory.
The picture was taken at Wilson Castle in Proctor, Vermont. I am not a fan of dead things on my wall, but I like this one. It seems somehow, still alive.
From all that, this poem.
Happy New Year,