the mud and dirt shod boots lay haphazardly strewn on the floor surrounded by evidence of his latest excursion
our tin walls boast of his mementos, their coarse hair is thick and fine
seven necks hang suspended on boards for all to see
their wide brown innocent eyes stare blankly into the room
feeling their presence about me, I comprehend they are cold, but wonder, how does one
Sleep here? Eat here? Breathe here?
remembering their last moments in life, the way their lithe limbs held a
until the first Crack startled the ...