He gave the air up from his lungs
lying with an edge of chalk.
like a pair of dry eyes at a funeral
but she knew his name by the end of night,
his balls feeling like cement.
Or at least later in her bed that day.
She brought him fruit with a cigarette;
Two piles of mixing molecules,
making memories to miss someday.
deep marks of murder
eyes in search of prey
sitting alone in a leather booth
black rabbits bitting feet
like red robes in the pulpit.
When they move,
they move in packs
animals closing in on a kill;
And they cast long shadows;
like scorpions waiting in empty shoes.
His hands were curiously cold,
with the instincts of a warrior;
A passionate puppet of primal habits.
The whole secret lies in that.
Suffering to live off the fat
of his vanity and crimes.
His voice, a harsh note
for the general welfare of a race;
For an unsympathetic character.
Living with rabbits