It was a mercy killing. <br /> <br />I took the weapon in clenched fist. <br /> <br />I looked directly at the thing, <br /> <br />the limping, dumb, weeping thing, <br /> <br />crawling each day through, <br /> <br />mercifully numb, in darkness, <br /> <br />in distress and in denial. <br /> <br />I raised the weapon, struck <br /> <br />coldly <br /> <br />at its fainting form. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />And from its death throes, <br /> <br />as it thrashed and bled, <br /> <br />I recognised <br /> <br />that after it was dead <br /> <br />it still could rise again, <br /> <br />no more a dying marriage, <br /> <br />but an understanding bond, <br /> <br />straighter, clearer. <br /> <br />Honesty beat strongly at its core <br /> <br />and in this life <br /> <br />we could not ask for more.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pains-and-regrets-collection-a-mercy-killing/
