Image credit: http://pierrecroco.tumblr.com/post/152344166374/
With a gun clutched in his right hand
He points it at the shaking man.
His heart is pounding like a drum
inside the leather coat
but he is flushed with a sense of relief.
He knows,
there is no going back after this ...
But didn't he go through this
a hundred times in his head already?
Wasn't it this morning he was done with
the constant chattering in his mind?
Someone needs to die.
If not this wretched piece of shit
in front of him,
then he needs to kill himself.
Because he has had it.
The police say they will nail the criminal one day.
They say they need more proof.
But, he knows for sure.
He doesn't have to go through their
unimpassioned, uninvolved responses.
In the golden light of the street lamp that night,
in the instance when his daughter
walking alongside him on the road
flew in the air, hit by a car,
he saw this face, as clear as blue sky.
And until now, he was so sure
that he had got the same shithead.
But as he looks
at the death dancing in his enemy's face,
the twisted jaws and bloodshot eyes,
his eyebrows furrowed a little with doubt.
