By K. Morris Kurzman

In a cage of shadowed bars -- Shattered, shallow glass
He snorts and snarls, growls and grunts -- sounds both cold and crass.
In bold half-hordes the circle round -- Darting mordant jeers.
His eyes distend, half-moons of hate -- spilling acrid tears.
What latent fear now paints them red -- Blinding strokes of bile?
"Oh, he's a serpent sinister -- Fiend of fierce Belial."
A burping belching bellow sounds -- Empty echoed shriek --
He falls- his potent visage torn -- Mighty limbs go weak
They laugh, they strut, in sprightly time -- Cast their jeers once more
His once tall frame is lost in dust -- Phantom on the floor.
They stare in caution, poke his corpse -- (Bounty of their art)
They sigh relief, cry in glee -- "He's pierced through, to the heart!"
Satisfied, they take their leave -- The beasts at last depart.

Written 2/16/96

K. Morris Kurzman is an 18 year old writing major at New York University. He can be reached at kmk8805@is.nyu.edu.
General information: Jeff Walsh
Design and HTML: Jase Pittman-Wells
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