Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR
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 to....th' 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,
and...th' people took turns playing God in Osage, Wyoming.
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Frank James Ryan Jr. /
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
the below work is an excerpt from my
2011 short story Horror-Fiction titled,
'Concerning The Witchwoods of Wyoming'
Comments about this poem (Playing God in Wyoming... by Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR )
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