Isn’t it true, that your actions sprout
from bad nerves & a swarming hive
of raging ghosts—tenants of the wet
brain running riot in deep arrears.
I wish I could have wrapped you in
fine Taipei silk & soft feathers,
removed you from the scene of leaping
shadows amongst a baptism of winter.
Did you suffer by the grubby hand of fate,
or by a gurgle of cruel design.
Inquiries continued well into the night,
where bloodshot rainwater flowed
through gutters & his cowardly act
was grimly noted in the sergeant’s report.
©️Orion Foote, 2021
Visions of Orion Poetry 