Killing
His perfectly formed carcass
lay exposed to the breezes, like vultures,
that clawed against my clothes.
Two bullets traced staccato tunnels
through his delicate, textured skin.
His eyes stayed sealed
on some salient silhouette
who still believed no spirit
could sketch such cold,
metallic misery
in this realm.
I reflected his stare
for a quiet moment,
as a white blanket
drew the last whisper of dignity
over the artist’s lasting masterpiece.
