On pedestals in high towers
overlooking racing rats,
autumn breezes blow.
Tarnished chrome
reflects disturbing beauty.
Blood on his sleeve,
he walks among the living,
but doesn’t belong.
bible in his head,
daggers in his heart.
Professor of war,
master of sin,
he savors bloody-rare filet.
Through smokey window,
someone starves unnoticed.
Jealous specters chase dreams,
fleeing nightmares in mass graves.
Rusted statues stand proudly
in pools of blood,
asking with sincerity,
“what’s in it for me?”
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Thoughts about disparity.
Stafford challenge 134/365.
Desert Dweller 