Nights and Roses Series
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.
Covered, the corpse carried off
By the night and
Eventually arrives at
The morning,
And then gone.
Veins of sun-stretched elation,
Expansive plains of pastel azure.
Breathe traces the bends and curves
Of the rising and falling,
A pulse placed in the open palm,
A prayer.
the3rdpersonstory 
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