<< Poetry Index
But I have lived the pain
more times than I can count,
and the anger, the burning anger,
the lasting never dying anger;
that I was found guilty of your crime.

If justice was true
and measured truely to the crime,
I would, with a smile on my lips,
twice nightly place a match upon your car
and dance a funeral dance of mirth and glee,
in perfect time to your dying mortal shrieks,
then raise you once again to life
to place the match again,
then burn each member of the court,
slowly to perfection,
like perfect flawlessly done marshmallows,
then grind them slowly,
oh ever so slowly,
with malevolent determination,
into the dirt beneath my feet.