DEATH Poem: BLOOD, by Cedar Clark

The knife gleamed
his hand, catching
the faint flicker

of the streetlight overhead.

Blood
pooled at his feet,
dark and viscous,

the scent of iron
sharp in the damp air.

He swiped the blade
clean against the coat
of the body

slumped
against the alley wall.

The chest no longer rose
and fell,

the arrogance

that once filled
the face had drained

away, leaving
behind nothing

but slack, empty

features.

Blood seeped
around the man,
no drop was out of place.

He didn’t flinch.
He never did.