Still Life

The first time I went into the bathroom,
there was blood on the walls of the last stall,
splattered like paint thrown excitedly on a canvas,
by some soul exploding its essence outward,
through the finite matter of its shell-

Death painting white bricks.
Still life.
True high art to draw the senses
upward in the contemplation of God.

When I went back later that day it was gone,
wiped away by a quick hand and Lysol,
leaving disinfected bright bricks,
hiding eternity.

Someone had written in all caps
on the stall door
in black magic marker,

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