Far From Normal

Crimped, the brass nipple
Closed tight on a steel cable
And pressed up, docking
Into a recess
High up, ceiling high the thin
Cable dangling free

Perpendicular,
Taut, tense, a still leaden bob
Hollowed-out, tied, and
Hung like the guilty
Facing ultimate questions
Ready now, to swing

Filled with Indian
Ink, its black blood emptying
Hesitantly through
A small orifice
Spilling onto a canvas
Stretched out on the floor

Shoulder to shoulder
A crowd, as for a hanging,
On tiptoe, craning
Waiting for the bob
Its unseen earthly artist
In fine oscillations

Petals of jet black
Painted each day for a year
Until death draws near
A gallows-crowd back
To watch the last ink-drop fall
A final full stop.

Its legacy gift:
Spiral art and animation
Of life spent, ending
In shocking beauty
Condemned, maybe, but so,
So far from normal