Thursday, December 2, 2010

The Butcher

Raised arm flickers light from the end of a blade
Solid handling to slice open another slab of Shakespearian sonnets
The bleeding stopped as another life lay stooped
On that cold and cobbled floor

Tiles that remain etched in horrific memory
Nothing original in the butcher's artistry
A mosaic of blood stained metaphors
Sun bleached lies; lack luster, lost allure

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