Assassin
A hooded figure watches over the sleeping.
Peacefully, suddenly colder, soon to be weeping;
A body of a thousand slumbers.
Tonight will be its final number,
For without sound or any sign of remorse,
Death has come, and in due course,
The time will come when the sleeper breathes no more.
The clock has not yet struck midnight.
Witches are waking their feral beasts and al-
So, their frogs are leaping,
And all the while he lays there sleeping.
His silk pajamas and knitted blankets.
The bottle he was given, he slowly drank it,
And now through snores, he hears no more,
The open door downstairs where footsteps call.
If only he could hear them passing,
Maybe he could somehow foresee the morning happenings,
But this is not a happy ending tale.
This is a time for woe; a rose upon a grail.
A dearly departed letter of discontent.
A scarlet rose has been placed upon his deathbed.
As the clock strikes, a metaphorical piercing knife.
The depths to which some men will delve,
And all in aid of a silent war.
A change in fortune for another who did not fall.
For this assassin was bought and he sold,
His service to another victim old.
For as he stood above his prey,
A bag of monies did come his way,
And with no word, a swift hand grabbed,
The jewels inside the felt covered bag.
All that needed to be said:
“It is not yet my time; send your services back instead.”
Now riches bulged from spoils of war.
The hooded figure waited until he could wait no more,
And on the chime of the seventh call,
The end appeared, a discovery made, the snorer was no more.
Only silence, through such violence.
The hooded figure was never seen again,
But the world had swiftly and suddenly changed.
His services would surely once again be called upon,
Lest his deeds become ineffectual and his tale too soon forgotten.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
