Murder was called for
Nothing less than total annihilation of the being.
The state of affairs
As it currently was
Between them
Could no longer be sustained
In its present form.
What could be done
Had been done
What could be tried
Had failed.
Though there existed within
A simple hope
Somewhere –
That perhaps this extreme path
Were not required
the body
the soul
the self
Knew better.
The only escape possible
Was to come
With this extreme.
And so
The knives were sharpened
The plan was set.
The poison bought
The appetite whet.
All that remained
Was the will
To go through
With what could only be called
The perfect plan.
And so
With a smile
Contained within
A knot of fear
The knives were sent flying
The end was sent hurtling
Chortling with the glee
That can only be understood
By those who have tasted freedom
After a long and bitter affair
With incarceration.
And so now
With the deed done
With the blood still dripping
Fresh from the tips of the edge
Of reality;
Relief lay panting
On the tiled floor.
Tired
Exhausted
Exhilarated.
Free.
Disjoint Wisdom 