Dot

Frayed dried twig fingers knead lumps of pink matter,
Into a bloodied straw mass that grows fatter and fatter.The donor, a victim that life has eschewed,Her cold flesh as scarlet as her ruby red shoes.A needle, a thread – open straw scars are sewed,as blood drips to the bricks of the long amber road.Then the murderer sings, with a cheery refrain‘"If I Only" No longer, now that I have my brain.’