A murder, then,

There is a stillness.
A death in the room,
no pretense of a natural death.

A murder then,

a messy one, with rants and monologues and madness,
a time of lies with more teeth than truth,
one one side a display of fireworks and venom
and on the other, an almost corpse,
drained and dry and yet
still a thing of beauty,  worth keeping, worth preserving,
remnants of color standing over the funeral pyre
of the murderer.

About this poem

I seem to live in a sea of people tearing down others. My compassion always lies with the ones torn apart. Nature or nurture, I am never sure which, but that whole turn the cheek thing? Hard as hell, but mostly, it works.

Kill ’em with kindness. It drives them crazy. Proverbs 25:21-22.

Dancing,

Tom