Part XVIII

(Moving straight on Part 18, we are back through
the eyes of the killer.

XVIII

Herding screams like crocheted baubles

He plucked each target from the rooftops

With the grace of a fishermen

Slicing hairs off heads

And coke cans from hands

With a skill most of his ex army mates

Would have been proud off,

Piercing dreams with hard earned sweat

Flicking art with each bullet

Ripping policemen in half

And people running to his rescue

Into splots of paint,

Slowly drowning in his own happiness

With each kill

Unaware you can’t kill ghosts

With bullets

Until it was too late.