It was a mercy killing.
I took the weapon in clenched fist.
I looked directly at the thing,
the limping, dumb, weeping thing,
crawling each day through,
mercifully numb, in darkness,
in distress and in denial.
I raised the weapon, struck
coldly
at its fainting form.
And from its death throes,
as it thrashed and bled,
I recognised
that after it was dead
it still could rise again,
no more a dying marriage,
but an understanding bond,
straighter, clearer.
Honesty beat strongly at its core
and in this life
we could not ask for more.
Processed documentation, has been more important to me than myself or my situation, whether happy or sad. This is beautiful archiving of a time that must have impressed many new learnings on you.
My God.... this is SO poignant, I totally understand what you are saying here. It resonates. Brilliantly crafted. HG: -) xx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brave act of mercy killing of something dying, it brings such a relax and enlightment your poem i mean, or maybe the act of mercy killing, I do not know but i like the liberation effect.