Cactus

We place a cactus on his grave,
letting its needles bloom
where his conscience never did.

He was a contagion.
That spread
through the house like damp,
warping the walls,
souring the air,
leaving a residue of dread
on every threshold he crossed.

Anacondas danced on his halo
coiling through his pious virtues.
His eyes, twin wells of stagnant water,
pulled the courage of children
into their murky undertow.
His crooked fingers,
were rusted hooks disguised as hands,
snagging the edges of innocence.

An ugly golden calf
with a rancid belly
left loose on pastures,
trampling the fields of trust
with hooves forged from arrogance.

A fine morning his carcass soul
gave up, very young
crumbling like quicksand
sinking in car with red lights
that cackled.

The dry rustle of relief that
swept over an exhaling house
caused goosebumps on walls
where the hide and seek was staged.

Cactus shrivels each year,
only to be planted again.