Art

 
It was a face,
bloodied by paint and

shadowed in green mystery,
burdened with pride
and sinful foreshadowing,

if there is such a thing.
It vomited scorn and
held its eyes always in
a falling motion.

Fatal pretension, cast in
iron and worn like a dirty
mask, until, finally,

right hook.
Bang.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Portugal. The Man, Horse Warming Party