11 Streaks of Blood — A Tribute to Charlie Hebdo

A door bursts open,
newspapers scatter,
11 streaks of blood,
flow across the floor.

The dark smoke rises,
then disperses,
its curse,
passing over the chosen ones,
sleeping in faux-down beds,
secured by velvet ropes.

The slumberers stir,
sensing trouble.
But coaxed and soothed,
they doze once more,
unaware of the phantom wind,
outside the mirrored doors.