Each rain soaked cobblestone reflected a midnight moon <br />as total darkness hid between the close, claustrophobic walls of alleyways. <br />A single stage rattled to a stop. <br />The smokey breath of stallions, cut through the evening chill, <br />twirling upwards like some forest fire. <br />A bag, full of different shaped knives were lifted from inside the carriage, <br />wrapped in the leather of the bovine dead. <br /> <br />He walked tall in his high hat, cape dragging the ground, <br />sucking moisture like a bloody bandage. <br /> <br />Death had come to visit in internecine slices. <br />Soon the white chapel walls would be splattered in the gore <br />of ripped wombs and breasts. <br /> <br />Bemused and baffled, the law was helpless <br />as those at the top, endeavored to help the weakness of a royal prince.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clarence-the-artist/
