Murder in Melbourne

In the Kings Domain,
while roses weep,
homeless hands invade
pale flesh, stain a sleeping city
crimson.

Winter’s rime freezes
blood
as quickly as it spills –
dismissed by ghostly walkers
who see consent
within the brume.

Tattered thoughts flee,
scatter on a breeze
like leaves spilled
over dewed grass. A moan,
a sigh, the frenzied grind
of stained denim
on lace.

Ryan Stone

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