gun unslung
hanging by his side
swaying with his step

his step thorough
leaving sand behind
floating like particles of dust

dust now forgotten
as his step imprints
upon broken glass

glass shatters more
crumbling
like the cities of Israel
beneath the feet
of falsely declared gods

gods that now drive the mind
with intrepid pace
towards the unsuspecting

the unsuspecting victim
of such malice
that can only be embodied
by death

death
only defied by those
who can truly consider themselves
wholesome and true

and yet the truth struggles
to stop this relentless growth
of pride and self righteousness

and thus the marksman
raises the gun to his target

his breath steady
his heartbeat in his ears

a resonance that he despises
his imperfections are his enemy
And if not to be perfect then what else?

he pulls the trigger