my trial for the spidered carcass in retrospect

those are tired and timid hands
clasping each finger; tightly wound coils
of dough kneaded in prayer

in casual trials
a public official
is crucified and distributed
among the consensus.
savage rituals commited by
old men in suits,
wearing a butchers grin
a blood-eyed stare
watching your veins dance to
scattered heartbeats.
they carve a constituents appraisal
into structured masks and scripted
outbursts. their lips buzz like flies.

but butchers they stay, sharpening their knives
on small black stones named pity.
playing the games of paper-skinned mutes
gesturing small colors.
the blades cast clay shadows
of guarded valleys promising
the sugared caress
of dead branches