Puffs of thistledown
floating in the air.

Lovely lady
dark blue plums
and the tracery of lace.

'Toot' says a trumpet
to the cry from a clarinet.

Tinkling piano notes
flowing
lilting, rippling, fleeting
fleeing.

Bows, strings and violins.

Echoes of yesterday
fading into grey.

Patterns of neglect
reside at intersections
with doubts
and the relics of disrespect.

Wounded victims
hide
behind barricades
of anxiety and mistrust.

Gaps for sorrows
coincide with thoughts
trembling
like piano notes.

The ugly side of paradise
immortal, immoral
eluded the glimmer
of an impassive sun.

Oases defined
by the purity of light
shimmer
somewhere outside the mind.

Relatives of dead convicts
with debauched faces
and curly headed sailors
sing morose melodies
to the wail of saxophones
screaming strings
clashing cymbals
and the rattle of kettle drums.

Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.

A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.

No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.

Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.

The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
appropriately
a beautiful woman.