To kill a mockingbird


A bullet to the head

Might be the easy way,

A dagger to the heart

Would test your sanity,

As they lie on the bed

And in your hands held sway

Complete and true as art,

Blossoms a vanity

Never quite before felt

Or surely never thought,

A firm hand to the throat

Or this forsaken belt

Tied in a swift, firm knot –

One last ironic note –

The paths ahead are score

And their ways still wilder,

Yet only one, no more,

May reach the Great Builder;

A good rope to the feet

Could drag them to their meet…


No pithy for the pain whirl.

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