The bitch was overdue.

and the cries were growing,
ever louder, it was high time.
The oldest boy assumed,
with such an air of competence,
today’s authority, he wiped away
the doubts of everyone, and lit
a cigarette that smelled so sweet,
then pulled out of his pocket a flask,
all shiny stainless steel, a mirror
perhaps of post-pubescent soul?
They all were guilty to the third degree.
And should have stopped him then,
before he killed them all, except the one.
But, no one had the guts to take the job
and not a single sound was heard
in protest of the bloodless slaughter.
His nicotine-stained fingers were,
that night, the forceps, used to maim
and kill, but not with kindness, no.
It was indifference that had befallen
and made its bed inside his mind,
he only had to lean into the down
to gather strength again and to go on
from deeds of misadventure to the awe
of being free to take your own sweet life
and hold it out to dry its melancholy tears,
and then, so near the end let go of it
and watch it flutter with uncertainty,
and with the grimace of despair, so brave
into its pre-ordained oblivion, after all.
The one survived and lived to see the day
when they took flowers to his marble stone,
if dogs could read we would now know
what all those golden letters said,
though there are times where, for us all
our lips must both stay stiff and also silent.

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