by Raymond Towers
From the cool blades of grass, the dewdrops cling
to my slacks, as I stride over for my first glimpse of
the corpse. A male this time, short haired, clean cut,
a spider web tattoo is branded onto his shoulder.
His skin bears slashes, his knuckles bruised, yet
even more gruesome is the angle of the head, his neck
snapped, leaving such innocent eyes pleading
toward heaven, searching for answers or mercy.
But it is too late for that, far too late, I conclude.
Even in death, there is far too much indignity in a
mangled corpse. I glance at the trooper to my side,
but his only response is a silent shake of his head.
For this man knows, as well as I, that no answers will
arise from this dead soul, who has chosen as a final
resting place, to lay among the
cool blades of grass and the dewdrops.
