HOME | DD

Description
He was there
just there
lying on the cold, wet pavement
the black night of it
wet at his back, his side, his front;
his head at an unnatural angle
tilted towards the sky
nose up:
a last snub at the world,
his formal business suit,
blue with small pin-strips
to match his starring eyes;
a business man,
prosperous by his dress,
his black shoes freshly polished
so shiny they reflect the light—
the light from the streetlamp
pouring over his body:
it’s night,
cold and raining—
a drizzle of rain
merely mist in the sky
plastering his blond hair to his face,
making his pants stick to the skin;
the warm blood from his open wound
dripping,
forming a pool of sticky blood—
a pile of muck—
thinned by the cool rain,
his body surrounded by it,
yet left unstained;
the stench of him
fills the air
suffocating the lungs—
the heated smell of raw flesh
slowly starting to rot;
the powerful scene
bites at the heart:
the young man,
can easily be a boy—
of only nine or ten—
dead on the ground
with no reason at all,
another war,
another innocent gone,
too close to home.

Description
He was there
just there
lying on the cold, wet pavement
the black night of it
wet at his back, his side, his front;
his head at an unnatural angle
tilted towards the sky
nose up:
a last snub at the world,
his formal business suit,
blue with small pin-strips
to match his starring eyes;
a business man,
prosperous by his dress,
his black shoes freshly polished
so shiny they reflect the light—
the light from the streetlamp
pouring over his body:
it’s night,
cold and raining—
a drizzle of rain
merely mist in the sky
plastering his blond hair to his face,
making his pants stick to the skin;
the warm blood from his open wound
dripping,
forming a pool of sticky blood—
a pile of muck—
thinned by the cool rain,
his body surrounded by it,
yet left unstained;
the stench of him
fills the air
suffocating the lungs—
the heated smell of raw flesh
slowly starting to rot;
the powerful scene
bites at the heart:
the young man,
can easily be a boy—
of only nine or ten—
dead on the ground
with no reason at all,
another war,
another innocent gone,
too close to home.