its glassy eyes popping

from sockets while

steadily squeezed,

its soul drooling into

the rust tinted night,

lying frosty and

stagnant in little

spittle-pools,

its black hooves

chafing against

the wet dust,

painting bizarre

hieroglyphics:

a panicked gospel,

a few last rites.

a burst vein

spills oily gore

over sacrosanct palms

as they char

the purple coils

of glistening viscera

into idolatrous ash.