The Death Of Man

Hulk, broken.
Sword of horn pierces the heart.
Makes flesh the art.
Stench of blood, and rust.
Dead things rot as they must,
in acid moonlight beams
of silver turquoise.

She looks on, with voluptuous stare,
the goddess up there.
Killer, or judge.

A red rose sighs,
wet, in tiny sympathy as he dies.
Gentle leaves flex and crisp,
curled in lush tenderness,
yet cut from the branch.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.