Ammoral

Gravel scrapes the soles of my boots
Wind and water shear off my shoulders
My grip tightens on the handle, as my thumb unlocks the trigger.
A few meters ahead, a pale, spectral form flees in the growing storm.
I wish not to be late, and begin to run.
Not long after, I overtake her, and she stares up in horror at her last sight. Dark hair plastered to her pale forhead, eyes wide with terror.
I take careful aim, step back to avoid backsplach, and fire, three quick rounds. They echo, but are soon lost in this valley of death. In my car, I shed not a tear. I am early, so I step into a roadside diner, for a late night meal. I am ravenous.

Adam Zank

http://www.poemhunter.com/

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