Poetry

You become a chair. 
A dream sits in you 
for a graphic detail of 
pelvis. A trophy? 
 
Was it undecorous to present 
a cadaver walking on the earth? 
A serial killer wants a plaque 
on his grave after the verdict. 
 
Saber-rattling has started, 
unplucking the lovers of game. 
A peltate shield in hushed silence 
covers the undressing. 
 
The prisoner of words tempers with 
a mask to become a bruise.