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Once a killer, a soldier; a regular mercenary.
His talents were obviously not to be taken lightly. His eyes
let you know he wasn’t joking when he spoke of his enemies.
They were all dead now, but still very much alive in his head.
He had pissed on each one of their graves, with grimace and recycled beer.
Placed a wreath at their head after collecting the bounty on their ass; a man
who knew his limitations, he never made mistakes. Not one.
Retired now, he has found work as a poet.
He no longer requires his automatic weapons to kill; words are sufficient
to slay his readership without pulling a trigger.
At least nowadays when he goes off, the names have been changed
to protect the innocent and those few he let live....
2008 © T Sheridan
Ted Sheridan
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