Contract Killer

She took the hilt

Between the teeth

Twisting round

Pushing leather deep

Unsheathed, raw steel shines alive

At the casualty of sound to come

Syncopations rhythm grows

Primal surge, crescendo

Under the mask of day

Collides the guise of night

Under the cutest grin

A smile’s born in sin

Constriction tightens its clutch

That’s when her eyes rolled to touch

Squirming from anguished horizon

Into a chalice of trust

Flora ignites the pleasured scent

As the poppy’s milk skews sense numb

From a frenzied savagery

Ascension crests,

A transformation through thrashing

Sinews debased: Corporeal, feral,

As spindrifts snuff

In unison

Yet…

Rise she does

In deepest gleam,

Forcing rancor to the forefront of gaze

Pausing…

She took the hilt

Between her fists

With violence descending quick

And soon the sternum breaks

Unsheathed, raw steel’s a dull grey

As a casualty of lust, trust’s betrayed

Gasping; flailing incoherent

She places finger upon lip

Whispers the darkness comes quick

Forever stained with the wash of her

Never to bathe again

…And she redresses

Knowing the soul’s lingering

Eyes watch as she pens

Three words into still smooth flesh

DO NOT RESUSCITATE

Near a freshly painted paneling

There’s a window that leads out

Through the paper-thin screen

A reddened daybreak can be seen

Illuminating what remains of last night

 I don't know where this one came from, but thought it an interesting idea and decided to roll with it, of course blurring the lines a bit.

Assassination Volume I

The shot whispered

Low velocity, minimum casings, a ho hum, hum

The sound greatly went unheard

The exit wound provided details

The fresh coating, painted seats,

The cavalcades’ destination not yet reached,

The entrance went unseen

For the many who broke vows for promise

Tradition left in muddled ruins

Fathers and sons, dinner segment opposite side of room,

Buyers’ remorse, this election came all too soon

To the man that walks the street this day,

The tears from a society

Weakened by the sweeping feet

Voices pared with vinegar

In some words were spackled with sincerity for a long dear friend,

In others sorrow genuine and true,

But for some, the sentiment of woe is me and those who do not care,

A range of reflections presently clear, including those I feel the most sorry for,

The many with an uncanny sense of relief

To them, this time the pain came without courtship, with no wait