by Nick Gisburne
A crooked candle penetrates the gloom,
Coercing bitter tears from tired eyes.
In reverie she decorates the room,
To mark and mourn her enemy’s demise.
The signature of infamy, the pin,
The badge his hated faction always wore.
A needle, used to push a poison in,
Enslaving those he tortured, maimed, and more.
A thousand bullets, one for every life,
Arranged in simple symmetry, in rings.
For those he killed, in payment, with her knife,
She spilled his blood. For them, she softly sings.
The man was not a monster, not at first.
By war, by hate, the son she killed was cursed.
