the guillotine stands <br />alone in the square, <br />the pinnacle of pulse.... <br /> <br />that drains the heartbeats.... <br />traffic heavy, horns honking, <br />hurrying, hurrying.... <br /> <br />trucks and buses puffing clouds <br />of death into the air.... <br />neon signs keeping score. <br /> <br />billboards selling the dream, <br />street preachers selling Jesus.... <br />corner whores selling themselves.... <br /> <br />in sterile rooms atop the skyscrapers, <br />far from the stink, far from <br />trash strewn in the alleyways <br /> <br />like tiny lives forgotten, <br />gum stuck to the shoes..... <br />they gamble with futures, <br /> <br />trading hungry mouths without faces; <br />never looking back.... vultures <br />in black suits and ties... <br /> <br />winning, winning, or losing it all. <br />while the homeless and the addicts <br />walk the streets below.... <br /> <br />looking for something they cant remember.... <br />light dancing on the razor-like blade..... <br />heads from bodies, hearts from souls...... <br /> <br />profit from the last heartbeat!<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/guillotine-7/
