The Dementia -

Witches, bitches, hellhounds.
We have pronounced the breed,
know the seeds of hybrid mutts in the kennel
of our purity.

Tails wagging, fingers pointing , annointing
the hunt for answers like a firing
of nonsense in their blast of motion.

Never able to track the notion, we
simply follow the trail left
by the fellow in the next saddle.

In the hysteria of a faith,
like a wraithed rabid dog
we froth at the mouth.

Pronouncing her a mongrel of the streets,
she meets the breeders head on with open hands
to their sharpened teeth.

Prepared , she attacks her fate
for not ripping the rabbit to shreds.