Enter the third murderer
seedy smelly and fidgets
not aghast at what he’s done
flowers still hold their colours
trees move darkly in the wind
the waves coil like demons
birds are wheeling like
serpents they surrender
occasionally insist on one last
kind of horror I don’t know
he doesn’t feel it like you do
pain decided by the bucket
drought season he falls asleep
never tell him about the wet.
© 2012 Rob Schackne
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