Abattoir
Abattoir
She sat with her back to the wall
cuddling a red rag doll,
her eyes gazing into some safe place.
Her right arm lay disembodied
some ten feet away.
Her mother, beautiful, olive skinned
had been drinking coffee, Java I think,
now she lay stripped by the blast
to her lacy mauve French knickers
like some pornographic marionette
with hinged arms and legs.
Remarkably the coffee sat untouched,
still steaming and oddly inviting.
The silence screamed obscenities
as incongruous lances of sunlight
from the collapsed roof spangled
off the settling dust and lit
the crimson offal strewn floor.
A man created but
God inspired abattoir.
Copyright © Archie Wilson | Year Posted 2019
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