hunted down
they found him in an open field
riddled with scraps of poetry
half thought out verse
set in awkward measure
broken mouth
dammed with thwarted doves
fingers crushed
stained with bitter ink-fret
one upturned palm caked with blood
the body’s final prayer
sensate oblation
at last at peace
splayed across
gaunt furrows of barren asylum…
out of his heart’s conclusion
a single stalk of wheat.
***
BY NEIL BROSNAN: The revolutionist
This is too cruel. It breaks my heart.
Liked the revolultionist, especially the first verse.
What an unfortunate hero