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The Art of Death
Soul-tired,
 Weary-eyed,
 Arms ascended heavenwards,
 Surrendering to the inevitable.
 
 Blindfold shoved on in haste,
 Shielding the upcoming future
 From an age-wizened face.
 
 Three. Two. One.
 Bullets puncture mocha-colored skin,
 Ripping past cotton barriers.
 
 A masterpiece of red, steel, warm flesh.
 Artwork worthy of the artists:
 The brutal firing squad.
 Artwork worthy of the masterpiece:
 A martyr succumbing to fate.

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