I heard a plaintive heave before the cleaving of the air,
then of the flesh – a forceful splitting of a young citrus,
then of the splintering – a crunch that froze the scorch of that afternoon.
Finito! the sound of the fragile spine breaking into hundreds... or is it thousands? of pieces.
And the debris, of the marrow
and the dangling arteries –
of chunks of the hypothalamus,
a part of the left hemisphere –
the tangential stains of blood on modern Golgotha – a cemented clearing deep within the woods
parched and dried by the anger of that afternoon -
which resembles a festive night:
festooned with firecrackers,
with showers of embers and
fountains of fire,
glow sticks of horror,
And the lower part, the detachment:
loose and limp
placid and peaceful.
A fresh sculpture of soft clay in red
plaid polo and punturong –
both saved by the stain of gore,
but not with the stain of nature
on the flipside
the habiliments are covered in dust – modern dust
brought by cement and its slow deterioration
of how friction demolishes it era by era
tick by tock of the giant slothful clock -
and as this same cement
seeps all the fireworks
vegetation thrives –
and the fruit of man, and law, and
capital teeth and eye dangles
through thick sinewy vines.
The land devour the sculpture carved by a single
stroke.
And then another heave is heard
then the cleaving of the air,
the almost splitting of the neck meat,
the forceful pulling of a penchant edge
then the cleaving of the air
the splitting of a young tangerine,
then the splintering of a spine,
the spray of sainthood in scarlet,
then the limping,
the rolling, the creation of a mask.
It was a masterpiece of music,
visual aesthetics and
natural arts.
As the mark of each face
was left in the humid winds
of that
afternoon.