Near the tree swing, you shot a snake with a sharp b.b.
The sleek black side, unaware of the muzzle of a gun,
completely oblivious to such an invention,
catching the summer shine as he went past.
I pleaded with you.
Next thing I knew, the poor creature flipped involuntarily,
trying to escape the pain and twisting in an ungodly
manner, and spilling from the graceful scales,
all of it's guts.
The rip in it's flesh paralleled only
by the sting in my stomach
and in my dry throat.
I ran behind the barn to cry -
ashamed for so many reasons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment