Tick,
the seconds passing by,
Lick,
his lips are feeling dry,
Crick,
his finger stiff with cold,
Click,
the shot is clean and bold,
Flick,
the gun is gone from sight,
Quick,
he fades into the night.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 7:08 AM UTC
Tick,
the seconds passing by,
Lick,
his lips are feeling dry,
Crick,
his finger stiff with cold,
Click,
the shot is clean and bold,
Flick,
the gun is gone from sight,
Quick,
he fades into the night.
Nekatu Poetry © Arik Fletcher
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