by David Bowles

In rows, like putrid gourds
Or jack-o’-lanterns black with rot,
The minds they yield are arranged
By blood-tipped fingers
That spider over gelatinous masses of ruin.
Whispering ritually, she kisses each
And gives a pious bow.
Those men won the game,
Earned their prize,
Paid the price—
Noble opponents for whom her flesh
Was worth the soul’s destruction.

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