Wednesday, April 8, 2015


There were three saints lined up against a wall
it was old brick, cracked and decayed, and they were standing there

a bullet was fired at each, from three separate guns,
they were facing away from the wall, toward the shooter

the first saint was struck and died instantly,
he died with a strained look of acceptance on his face

the second saint stared back indignant, nostrils flared,
he struggled on the ground for hours, chewing and spitting dirt,

the third saint bent to shake his killers hand,
he fell like rags and withered on the floor at death's feet,

three bullets from three guns held by three hands recoiled
against the same body same hands same steel

three body bags were dragged into the gutter
blood like rainbows followed the trail.

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