Treasure Island

Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR

(A Collection of Select Works... / The City That Never Sleeps)

Playing God in Wyoming...

Th' body had been hanging for some days, i'd say, at least,
fr'm an oak branch thick n' sharded at its furthest stretch;
and th' mundungus scent of Death...could be ne'er denied,
in air, within a hundred yards of this Souls discolor'd flesh.

The temperature in August, o'er Wyoming's grazing field's
are paled in swelter to th' humid drip, attracting large flies;
stands to reason why none would approach such repulsion;
tho' it also lent much thought as' mindset of a Town.

Murder, cried a whore, still collecting from th' night before.
Suicide! 'Tis a long time coming, a lonely bitter man he was,
said another bitter man....who saw th' dead man in himself,' people took turns playing God in Osage, Wyoming.

___________________ F j R _________________
__________________ 2 0 1 2 _________________

© 2012-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. /

Submitted: Sunday, June 22, 2014

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Topic(s): darkness

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Modified to accommodate poetic format,
the below work is an excerpt from my
2011 short story Horror-Fiction titled,
'Concerning The Witchwoods of Wyoming'

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