Monday, June 5, 2017


Frayed dried twig fingers knead lumps of pink matter,
Into a bloodied straw mass that grows fatter and fatter.
The donor, a victim that life has eschewed,
Her cold flesh as scarlet as her ruby red shoes.
A needle, a thread – open straw scars are sewed,
as blood drips to the bricks of the long amber road.
Then the murderer sings, with a cheery refrain
‘"If I Only" No longer, now that I have my brain.’

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