she was 28 when the rain raged against her skin
and the late autumn night was black as hate
and the wind blew her spirit over the edge
she had to do it because she hated him so
more than just a casual hate was this
it burned and it fumed and it consumed her night beyond night
she hated him for stealing her youth
and for this he would pay
she hated him for controlling her life
and for this he would die
she couldn’t kill him herself, but she knew who to call
and the phone shook in her palm as she set the price
and when she hung up — thunder tore through the night laughing its evil laugh
rain pounded the window — like tears of the dead
lighting cracked the sky — like the cry of a tortured soul
today she’s 32 and the sun shines bright in her little town
but tears still rain down her cheeks night beyond night
she can picture his face and often wonders what things would be like if only she…
she can picture his face and often thinks — he soon would be turning four.
written 23 OCT 1992 while airborne between Dallas and Miami.
©1992, 2017 — Kent C. Williamson, In Search of Many Schemes
