A man on a cross is staring at me.
The whole left side of his face is smashed in;
jaw broken, lips split open, eye swollen shut.
But with his one good eye, he eyes me.
There’s something in his gaze I can’t quite place,
something like contempt,
or perhaps a warning.
Bullet holes pepper his scalp, and the blood runs
down his cheeks and neck,
pooling in the groove of his protruding collarbone.
But he keeps looking at me
with that steely black glare.
Shut your eye, old man.Shut your eye.
Copyright (C) 2012 by Eric Landuyt