Death can be justified
By the means of the killing,
The stupidity-insipidity of the
Freshly done victim, when it was living, alive and kicking.
In the face of the hundreds of
Less characteristic deaths, I mean:
Carried out by death mobs, hit squads
Just to satisfy some spleen
Of a powerful company
That go by the name of a nation state; and
The faceless, countless, unnumbered perishes
Swept away in one word: god’s fate.
Then, becomes the dead body a work of art,
Only when — frozen to the likes in reality —
Stoned and arranged by the designful assassin,
Between life and the mortician, it receives finality.
Expanded, expansive eyes, overflowing with horror
Or the fossilized stare of repenting breath,
If not a multi-socket spanner hammered inside the skull;
Blood dripped in a halo of messy, cold death.
For all family, friends, pet cats, catty neighbours
To condole and mourn as they play their part
Of unwitting members of an elite-like club
At the unveiling and closing of a work of art.