by Nick Gisburne
He’ll speak if you are careful, cautious, kind
But in his words you will not find regret
The men he killed, the seven, scarred a mind
Unfit to fight for freedom from their threat
Beyond the point of madness is there choice?
It matters not, for what he did is done
Without a trace of venom in his voice
He talks about the time, the place, the gun
It bothers him, to know that they are dead
But deeper was the pain when they were not
Whatever wounds he carries in his head
Began to heal when seven men were shot
No part of what he could have been survives
Destroyed by seven small, vindictive lives
