Deathful

Another missing number in the jungle
Turned up with nothing but a loincloth to protect your tender penis from what’s
danger in the wildlife
Hushing your blood to hear a grass blade break
Beneath live them fang, where the edible are thread
A clump of thieves' teeth are hung, strung around your neck
Book of matches in your left hand. Something sharp in your right
Fact: When one first arms themselves to kill, they will be lucky to fall,
even the old or the ill
And while the killing will grow easy, it will never grow less complicated
Why, what kind of killer are you?
Did you dig through its death unflinchingly?
Or did you just shut your breath and survive?
What kind of killer are you? Did you decide?
You’d rather starve than go on taking this day?
Does a bachelor’s degree arm one as it guts its prey?
Did you still feel deathful?
When one first (h)arms themselves to kill, they will be lucky to fall,
even the old or the ill
Killa'! Is you is, or is you ain’t?
Will you always eat around the wishbone or thank the carcass you’re carving for
what’s all destruction?
And do you still feel deathful with only matches, weapon, and less questions?
Would you now dissolve small slices of unraveled human arm on your good tongue?
Or would you now dig past your sausage stomach from the rungs of the ill over
the young?
And is this the fork to which you’ve come, a choice where there is none?
Knowing only to survive is quite deathful in the one dusk of what’s done
And so I ask, what kind of killer are you or will you become?
Did you dig through its death unflinchingly?