target

eyes focus,
narrowed slits
that look mean
whether or not
intended;
limbs tense,
elbows extended,
legs stiffen,
and feet are
planted;
wind drift,
calculated,
and innocent
incursion
estimated;
as the soul
of the warrior
marches
forward
to get
the latest
unsuspecting,
guilty target;
and then,
like the sudden
sound
of a bone,
breaking:
there is a volley,
that sets
the ground
shaking,
and through
an amethyst haze,
there springs
certain death,
from a craze
that knows no
alpha, or omega,
just glories in
the kill,
and what will
slay ya.



March 15, 2010, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.