A Lion's Den

It’s the horses again, dragging wild things across bleeding country. A small boy in a thin, ragged grey uniform offers the core of an apple to his guard. It is the only thing the already emaciated boy has left to eat. The guard throws it onto grey concrete and crushes it under a shiny boot. He grabs the boy by his hair, walks him to a metal dumpster, lays the boys head on the edge of the metal and slams the lid – again, again, again, again, small children screaming in the background, red blood instantly becoming rustcolored against the metal of the dumpster – again, again, again, again, the edge of the metal is not sharp, again – and then the small head is finally severed and falls between the garbage. The guard drops the boys body. The horses outside are large and black, they stamp their hooves, foam covers their mouths, their eyes roll back into their heads as they drag their own loads through mudcaked earth and under a sky that knows this is not how life was meant to be.