King Cong.


King Cong.


Innocence died, in a  blood washed rice paddy,
just errant misfire,
on a tiny peasant
in a conical hat,
and black pajamas,
she bled just like Andy did,
but this one's wrong.  
Lack of sleep,
getting short
nervous tension long,
then a sudden rustle
from the culvert behind me.   Heart hammers quick pivot eyes catch a glimpse peripherally
someone hiding, rising,
arms coming up at me.  
Disengaged from safety,
finger on impulse,
metal stitching stapling ---------
up her middle.
Her mouth expanding in
the oh, of why, matches my own.  
No interpretation needed,
as I butchered innocence.
I think of her
whenever I pluck roses,
and catch my finger
on a thorn,
beauty becomes pain,
I still bleed,
while she is still bones.

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