An Account of A Dead Terrorist


Every night, the city sleeps;
But I go down to business
No, not outside, but on a
Trip along my subconscious
I know not what the future holds
All I feel is guilt, that fateful night
When I; couldn't set apart the right
From the wrong, messed so much up.
Each time I picture it, I feel pain
A sharp nudge of the goodness
That still rules within
I had fired 21 shots; and there went
21 lives; as though I,
Was the ruthless hunter
And they were my docile prey
I watched the blood splatter
And the curse they threw; with
Their dying eyes
I had not winced, no not a bit
Now I lie, stone cold stock still
All I take are guilt trips now
My gunning days are over
I look around me and I figure;
Maybe I can make ammends
The next time it's in my hands.

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