Friday, 21 October 2011

Sic Gloria Transit Mundi

Dragged, no better than a beggar’s dead dog
Through Sirtes’ indifferent gutters
Eyes closed, dyed black hair matted

A shattered temple, exultant cries the farewell salute
To a Mad Dog whose day had come
Victim to grappling hands, time and hubris

Teeth now bared in empty shock, not anger
Fingers limp, no longer pointing
Fresh flesh flayed in expiation

In vengeance, in warning
In summary execution

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