The Tower

Noon,

The grave’s edge seems to caress her form as it swallows her shadow whole. 
The world is already silent as the dead, save for the vultures' croak.
The grave, a sodden womb of nameless earth
Yield forth reaching arms, once belonged to sublime beauties,
Now a tangle of roots, their black fingers, like boiled sheets, like leather
A faucet of blight issues from their headless necks
Their dresses stolen-
The headsman tosses away his apple core, his lunch, 
And ogles his last at his fair victim

How Gods are sweet to make her near, if every mortal was fitted to such- 
Unearthly stranglehold of vision: A right of kings. A wet dream of a God, 
Every limb expressed the passion in her
Curls of Desire ripple through his mind 
thick cables of muscles tightens in his frame.
For a short eternity he was still
Absorbed to nurse a thought about his fortune
Then, with a supreme effort, 
He clenched his hands into fists, his eyes become dangerous slits
and she heard scraping of something heavy against the earth,
The vultures, sniffing the air, darts closer, 
as if enthralled by premonition, or habit.
She holds her palmful of breasts
That shudders from his attention
She had little air of feeling, 
A butterfly whirls past her vision
So graceful, it compels her beyond salvation 
"The world is still beautiful," she said

A sinuous gleam -
the head bolts 
As sword exploded out the sides
that dyes him in a mist of enthralling gore
Slack knees desert their dying load
Withers beneath the greedy blade
Then its heaving flanks grows still
The ring of vultures watched, flicking their heads, eyes like curious children
He strides next to the horrid neck
A yawning orifice where once was a head
So beautiful, so damned
"...The world is still beautiful"

He grunts by way of reply.
Rolls her spoiling trunks into the debris of women
And chucks her dazzling face toward the vultures