The Guillotine on Cloud 9
There lies a guillotine on the corner of Cloud 9,
He sits there, his blade pouting,
whining, begging for the frigid trickle of innocent, sanguine ichor.
A woman with hair as pitch as the vultures mutilating philosophies of free speech and attempts at tenacity,
our successor, the guillotine.
The silence in the quad is broken by a holler, the woman embellished in sable, now spurting mindless nonsense:
"You are a vile beast! I will not let you control my life and manipulate my fam-"
Her words dissipate to the circling ravens, her body surrenders to the sheriff's embrace, and her fate,
crucified to the gates of Heaven.
Murmurs from the crowd,
"Who does she think she is?"
"How does she think she can live with thoughts from her own brain? Foolish!
I simply watch, no remorse, no sympathy,
Her head now lies in the arms of pessimism,
slowly rocking to the lullaby of her of discord as it envelopes her
I closed my eyes for a moment,
I didn't have time to justify myself,
for when I open my eyes, the raven-haired beauty lies dead upon on the ground.