Pollock on the Wall

The heart’s racing and shots are fired,
In that filthy den of evil and sin,
The Reaper scythes with glee and desire,
The souls of those who should’ve never been.

The bullets fly towards the flesh of the sinners,
Blood spatters around, some lay still, some crawl,
The Artist laughs and pulls the knife of the skinner,
So he can complete the Pollock on the wall.

The festival of death overtakes the Artist,
His masterpiece of crimson is a witness to his deed,
He lets out a sigh of relief and catharsis,
He vows, his next performance will better be.

Photo by DianaraSHERRY

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