Stepz To Death ... Ex CaL

Ex_Calibur

Short Topical

It was the December air that whispered the whistling language,
while witnessing dangerous men mope. It spoke of the flittering anguish
of seeing bitter exchanges turn violent: the vicious honesty
of street tales with entrail epilogues and bloody bibliographies.
The wind was far too accustomed, although, Harold was not,
a virgin to the unbearably hot backlash of when barrels go pop.
He remembers the kid’s screaming eyes under his skull’s bleak divide:
The brains last chance to wonder before the night air leached it dry.
Heaving high, the boy’s chest, congested with blood, weakly cried
after sobbing a river. His body shivered, tensed, released and died.
“Keep it tight,” Rodney warned, “snitches don’t live too long…”
“No doubt,” Harold mumbled,
as Rodney tossed the biscuit and sprinted off.

The baleful beauty of the morning breeze blew over his face.
He closed his eyes to the broken open sky and its sober embrace.
There was death in the air, among a city with disposable lives.
But a promise was a promise, so Harold slowly opened his eyes.
He saw the manmade landscape, exploding in a concrete Molotov.
Buildings dangle at mangled angles, architectural holocausts.
Ignoring the guilt, he ate an orange. He surprisingly hid it well.
As orange juice revived the blood hiding under his fingernails.

“Hey Harold…”
He jumped, an orange-crimson drop landing onto the stoop
Where he had been sitting, listening to the wind argue its truth.

Ex_Calibur

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