Onto the savannah.
Arms freely swinging,
No longer clinging
To life in the branches.
Freed hands gathered berries,
Used sticks to dig roots
Then spears to kill.
Was it the thrill of the kill?
The comraderie
Of the hunting party?
For when he tamed his world
He turned to kill his brother.
Sapiens?
What is it he knows
If it lets him tear
The very life
From where it grows?
READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSIELD