You thought of me
As the idle worshiper
Who wrote poems
To your wife
And you even tenderly
Saluted me
For my talent
But I had perfect plans
To kill you
And I listened
Those cold nights
Leaning over
Blood-streamed maps
Behind the walls
Of my shut eyelid
For more fish
To be tossed into the Sea
Remember how I am the one
Already standing over
Your dead body
Beneath the shooting star
In the dark
Impossible morning
Commentary: This is a work of fiction and not a genuine threat, purely written for dramatic, petulant effect.
