POEM: Murderous Skies

A flare, like a blinding flashlight, shines at the fore

Puddles of deep crimson crawl laterally — as if that bright dot was the wound

At the periphery, all the hues of bruising — indigo to a shade of purple indistinguishable from black

The colors tuned up by the heat of inflammation felt — but not seen — in the cold view of one beaten to the edge of life

As well as, by the harsh lighting — blues and reds dancing from lightbars and wig-wags of police cars and fire trucks — shining over the carnage.

 

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