Pathos, Reflected

Pathos, Reflected

Pathos puddles in young dimples when the girl raises the gun,
a teardrop reflected in Grandfather’s blurry eye.
She checks the sight, cocks the hammer, aligns the bullet
exactly on the stroke of sepia midnight.

Misery, reflected in her tears when he looks up,
ears ringing before she squeezes the trigger;
wags his tail to Grandfather’s rhythmic chime,
licks his tumour-filled belly one more time.

Like a bandit cloaked in purple and ochre camouflage,
a stale breeze slips through the window and thieves;
the last glimmer of hope kidnapped and forced
into mushroom cloud getaway cars.

Beyond empty stables, prairie grass whisper last rites,
dry and silver solemn sympathy-words
that fill the room, watercolours of life
reflected in death, as it is, in bloom.

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