Millie Haney, “Hands Meeting”
A parallel intention is taken on
by the role of the once deserted.
One tragic shot to the side of a rotten brain,
a body falling limp to the floor
with nothing left behind but a trickle
of dark, crimson liquid,
and muffled, crooked laughter
from the killer holding the gun.
Darkened, black venom
drips through the shattered psyche of a brain,
sprinting through throbbing veins,
dripping out of masked complexions and
slipping past poisoned lips,
kissed with greed.
Caution tape lines the scene,
where red and blue mix to flashing purple lights
like a twisted kaleidoscope in the darkness, a light
illuminating a street once only shined down on
by the gentle glow of the innocent moon.
There is a bustling crowd, a wild
room of broken people who scream names
in massive chaos
that flickers through
a city already plagued with such hate,
and one that is now crowded with roaring confusion.
Yet, it is somehow so eerily quiet.