Poetry

Blending with the light, 
as ancients did- 
on the leafy path. 
 
You turn your gun- 
on an old skull, 
with broken teeth, 
 
to rewrite the murder, 
without qualms. A sniper 
would take an aim. 
 
Untouchable, the years 
roll by, sending echos 
in the valley of tears. 
 
A final stroke. 
The blood stops in the veins 
while the angel sleeps.