by Nick Gisburne
A final, swift, unnecessary stab.
For minutes, more, his body has not moved.
Abandoning the knife, she bends to grab
The dirty, dreary drunkard death improved.
She drags him, leaves him, leaning. How absurd
That even now she coddles worthless men.
He vomits no abuse, no spiteful word.
No part of him will ever rise again.
She kneels, without the fear she felt before.
The power of possession here is hers.
Not now, not ever, not his private whore.
The guilt is gone; the blame already blurs.
She stares, at nothing, everything, the end,
A thousand pieces murder did not mend.
