the3rdpersonstory

Bleeding tears of a bull in its final dance,
Clouds of bruises
Rouges, deep blues and purples perusing
Clot the air.

Head high above the ruins of flesh
Hanging from its bone-frame. Love,
Undying, a touch transcending 
The blemishes of carnal blindness, watches on.

The shadows the moon throws down from the back row 
Of the amphitheater, bounce once and
Lie flat and dead at the feet of 
The Matador.

Eye-lids bowed, before he turns to leave, leaves 
His cape over the face of the slain,
Removes bloodied gloves, folds them over the gate on his way,
The pretence of a dignified end.