Fire Works
A hitman's dark poetic prose.
It wasn't supposed to be like this,
Running through the house no shoes.
The kettle whistling on the stove,
The sound of his artfully inclined muse.
It was going to be him and me.
Yet, now all these inconvenient bodies linger.
The gods must be taunting me.
The bag is full of items galore,
A saw, a stake, so many choices;
But I will have to add one more.
With one little flick,
High it flew.
It hit the ground in a whisper.
Softly, the death bringer came.
No earthquake, no storm,
No guns or hammers.
Up in flames, it went quickly.
Some say it was amateur,
Not the work of someone like me.
A master in the art of departing souls.
But alas, I am what I am,
Improv has always been my style.
I could have done much more,
Made them clamber for the door.
Get the job done,
Little mess, little fuss,
Fire works.
Tas is an autistic, queer, disabled, person of color. They are published authors and a writer.
