the slaughter at 116
lifeless and torn
scattered across a dim room
2 or 3 , maybe
4 or
5
the killer, in despair
inhales and holds,
unsure if a next breath's deserved,
lifts up a victim from the floor, then lets go
rubbing stained fingers up and down bluejeaned thighs
mass murderer of words
mad dog of poetry.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
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