red spilling on the ground
soaking into the framework
of the trappings bound within
closed doors and curtains drawn
- the way it must be -
the knife glistens
cold unfeeling
falls, the last to hear
clattering, clank, thud.
silence dropped on its knees
dark stares of storied walls
lacerated dripping frozen cement
through time that is as lacking
as the lowered vessel before it
and days later...
the clock broken, shattered
pieces lying trying to move
- trying though it cannot -
ripping into the black, blank...
a scream...
similar to the last heard
though from a different source
with different inflection
and for different reasons...
no -------------------------------------
no -------------------
yes.
- 1/7/97, 7:30 am