Sidewalk: A Dead Body’s “Splat!”

I saw your body outlined in chalk there on the corner, cold and alone.

Being dead leaves your mouth ajar but empty of twisted words, for once.

I knew it was you by the way the body’s skinny appendages, once gesticulating wildly to prove your viewpoint had to be right, lay, defeated and limp now.

The protruding glasses, shattered into a thousand loud mouthed shards after a disgruntled obsessed viewer pushed you, could only be yours. Eyes certain that they could ken absolute “Truth” that the rest of us–the “fallen,” godless, unsaved–could not, now blankly stare. Dark blindness surrounds you now.

So devoutly Christian and a regular church goer, You’ve assumed that you will go to a better, holy place.

Will you?

Blocked off by crime scene’s yellow tape, random people remark on how the “SPLAT” of flesh falling from multiple stories on to cruel sidewalk left surprisingly little blood.



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