Kneeling to wipe the sweat and blood from his temple. Horribly beaten he was making an attempt to stand. A body inundated by abuse willing to rise. Not concerned with a back story or who to blame. She wanted to see his human face. To wipe away the anonymity the blood created. Glistening but not reflective enough to mirror ones own image. The human suffering nourished where lust left one empty. The abuse fulfilled unbound greed. The blood trapped under the skin purple like the robe of a king. A hail of jeers, and humorous bile. Eyes glancing the crowd watching a celebration of freedom.


It's not what you think it's what you believe.  Patricia '96