To A Violent Grave Poem by John F. McCullagh

He was certainly buzzed,
Drunk, a better word,
When his convertibles wheel
Struck a tree near the curb..
A woman’s scream;
then silence, shock.
He whispered her name
But no one answered back.

The artist was dying,
But still he observed:
The drip, drip, of his blood
Onto asphalt that’s cracked.
Death imitates art.
Now break, gentle heart.
Sirens sound in the distance
a bright light in the dark.
As all neurons fired
in search of a spark.