Glamour Poem by Thomas Ware

The blood runs stale down broken floors,
The red seeps down between the cracks,
Memory of fresh and forgotten horrors,
The innocent held down beneath the axe.

We bask in the glow of wealth and peace,
And turn a starved indigent eye,
We cannot bear the truth of grief,
And bury it down, down, deep inside.

Blood dries to a shattered patina,
Stains dark on the wall,
This abandoned room, now an arena,
This house a drenched, combative hall:
The Bloodworks,
Ritual killing does not hurt,
Only enhances glory and great works,
Adds to the potency, smearing away with blood, dirt.

These wondrous ages, this bright record,
Hides the truth of monsters,
Masks the great discord.
Walking down the paved sunset sidewalk, illumined with the golden crepuscule,
A rat scurries beneath her feet.
She steps back, startled, and glances toward its birth, sees the dark discordant alley, where murder rules,
Sees the rusted axe swinging to the beat.
Witnesses the crazy grin,
Turns to run,
But against this she cannot win,
Down goes the sun.

Her screams go unheard,
In the sky, flying up like carrion birds.
Her agony goes unmeasured,
Long or short,
Pain is not the only treasure,
Sometimes simply mort.

The blood cascades down,
The stairs, the wall, the fringes,
Unnoticed by the indifferent crown,
With a squealing creak, swing slowly shut the hinges.