Blood Squirts Poem by James McLain

The sawing of the neck
and whacking at the bone.
Sleep will never come to those whom wait.
Her eye's were never dull, the sun not then.
The bloody smile, dark smoke it's rise.
Red apples, deep blue lips,
brown tapered wicks.
Refuse garbage heaps, the dogs of war are loud.
Growing even closer green flowers close.
The rooster picks at fleash her eye's are cold.
One last wack the sound then quiet as the blood
squirts from her neck.