Vengeance

She stands still, looking out over the sea

I hold my breath, watching from an upstairs window

Does she know she isn’t alone?

 

A breeze takes her by surprise, and a curl

Of hair is pulled from her cap

Blowing gently across her face.

 

Does she sense another presence,

Another pair of eyes-observing?

There is a noise in the distance, and

She abruptly turns her head to locate.

 

I instinctively take a step back in my place

Of concealment

But I have no reason to cower

The shadows give me the upper hand

Does she know she is my salvation?

 

Everything is so much simpler than

I had previously thought

For all my calculations and detailed notes-

My breathe still catches every time

She moves.

 

Observation is not understanding, but

It’s pretty close

And anticipation carries a purpose

Does she sense, in her bones, my

Ache and longing?

 

Before I realize what’s happening

I’m reaching out to take hold-

My arm, exposed to the moonlight,

My hand slowly closing into a fist.

 

As the waves crash along the shore

She’s dropping to her knees

Clutching at her throat

Scratching for breath,

Staining her soft white neck

With a frenzy of red.

 

I realize this is my choice

I realize I deserve this

And at the same time

It will also prove to be my undoing.

 

But I have waited

I have kept still and quiet

In the shadows

 

And as my grip tightens,

I watch her reach out once more

To the hissing night-

Before tumbling down

Into the ocean.

 

Then all is still

The deed is done

I only hope to God

The ocean will

Wash away my sins.

Photo Credit: SageScapes Flickr via Compfight cc

Last Image

The cabin air feels tight
Depressurizing
And as I sit here not yet realizing
What’s happening,

A picture pops into my head
Of you, eating grapes
At our table

Laughing at the ordinary moment
Of me dropping my milk
“Typical” You smirked

And that smile lingers
On the horizon as I
Softly go to sleep

Photo Credit: dutruong.t733 via Compfight cc

Why I don’t Write

Do I write for fun?
Or when the power of words hit me?
Do I write to process, to understand
The beauty of things that surround?

Would I write if energy was freely given,
Flowing to me in a continuous
And purifying rain of words?

If the bones in my hand didn’t ache
As I typed
And my heavy head wasn’t throbbing
From buried pain?

If my day wasn’t congested with
Chores and human frailties
Could I produce
A brilliant new world?

Or would I still sit here, wilting
Creativity dripping down the
Sides of my face
Not knowing how to come back from all this madness?

Photo Credit: Wouter de Bruijn via Compfight cc