in the congealing
bloodblack
of evening
the wretched roost
in rapture

a squawk of pain
erupts
like a geyser of flame
from the slit throat
of the rooster

day is not certain
in the spiralling maw
of hunger
beset by the gaping orb
of madness

a fox in the henhouse
of idiosyncratic indecency
mislabled joy
by ravenous hands
grasping melancholy

the spectator sits
patiently
as it all crumbles
to motes of dust
in rapid fire arrays of anger

ashen lips smirk
in the face
of broken nails
from clawing at the slick surface
of remorse’s obsidian gaze