by Nick Gisburne
At quarter past, his flailings black an eye,
A consequence of mania, they say.
I sympathise. I understand. I try
To hold myself together. Not today.
He goes too far, his lunacy a fraud.
I stole his secret journal. I am shocked.
He rates his rage, his mischief, to applaud
The games he labours daily to concoct.
I see him, sitting, quietly content.
Already he prepares another plan.
What torture will it take him to repent?
What punishment will paralyse this man?
He satisfies my questions with a gun,
A bullet, from a father to a son.
