by Nick Gisburne
Ignored, she knows that time is on her side,
But none will hurry here to let her in.
A surly watchman, taller, just, than wide,
Identifies the markers on her pin.
Her legion is unwelcome in the Wilds,
A secular assassin least of all.
His eyes, disdainful, wicked, like a child’s,
Dismiss her, but he opens up the wall.
The soldier priests are pleased to let her pass,
Unwilling to conceive she comes for them.
The name, the crime, the sentence, carved in glass,
Bestows in her the power to condemn.
She finds him, sleeping, just a boy, in bed,
And sends a single bullet through his head.
